Missing Memories

This is a story about a man whose life is uprooted completely and how he rebuilds it, only to see it disrupted once again, forcing him to start over a second time. It's not erotic but rather a story of persistence and recovery. I hope you enjoy it. As always, constructive comments and criticisms are always appreciated.

MISSING MEMORIES

I opened my eyes and found myself in a dimly lit room. I glanced around, discovering that my left arm was tied to a bed rail and I had straps holding me down across my chest and thighs. I had a tube in my throat, a catheter draining my bladder, and more tubes and wires attached to the restrained arm. Next to the bed, a series of machines was flashing and beeping.

I began to thrash around, trying to loosen the bindings and triggering a series of alarms. Within seconds, there was a middle aged woman in scrubs and wearing a face mask in the doorway.

"You're awake. Please calm down. Let me get the doctor. He'll want to see you immediately."

I tried to respond, but with the tube in my throat, all I could so was grunt.

Moments later, a middle aged male walked in. "Hello, I'm Doctor McDowell. Please stay still. You've been in a coma for almost a month. We need to be careful, as you're likely to be quite weak and may have some balance issues from your head injury."

I grunted again, then moved my free arm to try to grab the tube in my throat. "Don't touch that. We'll remove it in a bit. First, I need to check you over and see how you are."

I lowered my hand.

After listening to my heart and checking my eyes to see if they reacted to light, he turned to the nurse. "Let's sit him up a bit and see what we can do to make him more comfortable. He's been comatose a long time and I don't want anything happening to him."

The portion of the bed under my torso tilted up, leaving me at about a forty-five degree angle.

"I think we can remove the feeding tube. Leave the rest in place for the time being."

Together, the doctor and nurse removed the tube, leaving me with a throat that felt as raw as I'd ever experienced.

My mouth was desert dry. When I tried to speak, all that came out was "Wah, wah, wah."

"Hold on a minute." The nurse held a water bottle with a straw to my lips and I sucked greedily. It hurt to swallow, but I did anyway after swishing the water around in my mouth.

I managed to finally croak out a question. "Whe..., whe..., where am I?"

"You're in Einstein Hospital in Philadelphia."

"Wha... wha... what happened?"

"You were beaten and left for dead in an alley."

I just looked at him, not comprehending what he'd said. Beaten? For what?

"Now that you're awake, we need some information from you. And the police would like to talk to you. But that can wait until you feel a bit better about talking."

With that, he turned to the nurse and said, "Give him a sedative and let him sleep. Call me again when he wakes up."

She inserted a needle in the IV port and I felt the medication running through my veins as I closed my eyes and drifted back to the land of Nod.

When I awoke some indefinite time later, the raw feeling in my throat had lessened somewhat, although my mouth was still desert dry. My movements again triggered the alarms and a different nurse appeared.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

Hoarsely, I managed to get out a "What's going on? Why am I here?"

Once again, I got the "Let me get the doctor."

Doctor McDowell reappeared. I was pleased to see I remembered his name.

"So, you're awake again. Do you feel like talking or would it be easier to answer my questions with a pen and paper."

"Pen and paper," I rasped out.

"OK."

He sent the nurse off and she returned with the writing materials.

"Now, let's start with the basics. Can I get your name?"

I picked up the pen, looked at the pad, and realized I couldn't answer that question. Scribbling "I don't know" on the pad, I turned it so he could read it.

"OK, it's not surprising that you might have some memory issues because of the beating. Your memory will likely come back once you've healed a bit more. Do you know where you're from?"

I scribbled "No."

"Can you recall if you have any family?"

I pointed to "No."

"Do you remember what happened to you?"

"No" again.

"OK, that's enough for now. We'll try again later."

I closed my eyes as he left and dozed off.

When I awoke again, my movements once again triggered the alarms, bringing yet another different nurse. "You're awake again. Would you like to try eating something? The doctor would like to start you off on some soft foods to see how you tolerate them. If you handle them oO. K., we'll try something with more substance in a couple of days."

An hour later, I was presented with a tray containing pudding, some sort of mashed vegetable and a plastic cup with a straw containing some green substance with the consistency of a milk shake. The nurse assisted me with the pudding and mashed vegetable, then held the straw to my lips and let me suck it down. To her (and my) relief, it stayed down, at least for the moment.

"How's your throat?"

"Not as sore as it was."

"Are you feeling well enough to answer some questions? The hospital administration wants to know who you are and where you're from and the police want to talk to you about what happened."

"I feel good enough to talk, but I'm having real trouble with my memory. I can't recall anything prior to waking up in here. I have no idea who I am, where I'm from, or how or why I got here."

"The doctor will be making his rounds in a bit. You can talk to him then."

I dozed on and off until the doctor showed up in my doorway. "Nurse Adams tells me you kept your lunch down. That's great. She also tells me you're having some memory issues. That's not so great."

"I don't recall a thing prior to waking up here. I've no idea who I am, where I'm from or what happened to me. I assume someone must be looking for me. Have the police had any inquiries?"

"I don't know. A detective will be by tomorrow to talk to you. They'd really like to know how you ended up all beaten up in that alley."

"I don't think I'm going to be of much help there."

"Well, give it time. Sometimes you need a trigger to cause your memories to return. Maybe something he asks or says will help that happen."

"I hope so. It's really weird not being able to remember."

"Trauma will do that. Now get some rest. We'll see how you are tomorrow."

I met the detective the next day. I wasn't able to tell him anything more than I'd told the doctor. I still had no memory of anything before waking up in the hospital. At his suggestion, I let him take fingerprints, figuring that if I were in a print database somewhere, they'd be a means of identifying me. He also promised to review the missing persons databases to which he had access and see if I had been reported to any of them.

Now that I was conscious again, I began to improve. After a couple of days I was beginning to eat soft solid foods. No t-bones, but pureed meats, overcooked vegetables and even some desserts. A month strapped to a bed had left me weak as a kitten. It was several days before I even tried to get out of bed with the help of a pair of orderlies. The walk from the bed to the bathroom left me exhausted. Most of the tubes came out, including the catheter, but the medication port and the blood pressure monitor stayed attached. At least I was off the IV.

Now that I was more or less functional, the hospital administration came to visit with a host of forms and a determination to get as much information out of me as they could so they could get paid for the treatment. I was a gross disappointment to the lovely young lady whose responsibility it was to capture the relevant data. I just didn't know any of the who, what, when, where and why questions. My memory prior to awakening a few days earlier was a complete blank. Although I was quite apologetic, she left frustrated, no nearer to having the data she needed then when she arrived.

The detective struck out as well. My fingerprints weren't in any database they'd submitted them to and none of the missing persons databases he accessed had a match for me, leaving me no better off than I'd been before he'd tried.

As I continued my recovery, the hospital began a program of physical therapy. I spent hours working on restoring muscle tone and improving the compromised mobility. I got to a point where the only reason I was still in the hospital was that they couldn't discharge me without sending me to a nursing home to continue the recovery, as no nursing home would take me without identification and the prospect of being compensated for my care.

What was odd to me was that my memory loss didn't seem to have impacted my ability to read and write. Nor did it impair my speech. There were all kinds of things I seemed to know, none of which seemed job related, but which suggested I'd had at least a decent high school education and possibly a bit more. I began to try to figure out what I could have been doing before being beaten, but couldn't find the slightest hint of a suggestion. I was somewhere around thirty years old according to the doctor's best guess. While I'd lost some weight while comatose, I had been somewhere around 165 pounds when I arrived at the emergency room, about normal for my five foot nine inch height and slender frame. My hands were calloused, suggesting I worked with them for a living, although what I did with them continued to escape me.

At this point, the hospital really wanted me gone. I was tying up a bed for which they weren't going to be paid. Their legal department reached out to one of the larger Philadelphia law firms and a couple of days later a young attorney showed up in my doorway. He was the first visitor I'd had since I'd awakened.

"Hi. I'm Phil Coleman. I'm an attorney. The hospital has asked my firm to help you get some identification so they can get you out of here and into a nursing home to continue your rehab. Let's start with the basics."

"OK."

"I understand you have no memory of anything prior to your arrival here."

"That's correct."

"No name? No address? No idea what you did for a job?"

"Nope. Although I must have worked with my hands, given the callouses."

"O. K."

"Well, do you have a preference for a name? It will take some doing, but I think we can get you documentation that will allow you to function in society once you recover physically, at least until you remember who you are."

"Got any suggestions?"

"Let's pick something simple. How about Peter Smith? That's my father-in-law's name and he'll get a bang out of it when I tell him about it."

And so I became Peter Smith.

Phil did yeoman's work in getting me the identification papers I needed to function in the real world. Once the Peter Smith identity was approved, I was transferred to a local nursing home. I was uninsured, but Phil got me enrolled retroactively in Medicaid, which picked up the tab for the hospital care and the nursing home. I'd owe the co-pays and might be subject to some sort of recovery if I ever turned out to have had any undisclosed assets to speak of, but at least I was on my way back to the real world.

Three months later, I was discharged from the nursing home. The social worker assigned to my case had arranged a place to stay in a rooming house in a less than outstanding part of the city and had managed to help me find a job in a warehouse on the bus route that ran past the rooming house.

The bulk of the warehouse staff was Latino. To my surprise, I discovered that I could speak Spanish. I had no idea where I'd picked up the language, but shortly after arriving at work the first morning, I overheard two of my co-workers speaking Spanish and, to my amazement, understood almost everything they said. That was interesting, to say the least.

As you might imagine, the employee turnover at the warehouse was substantial. Within three years of my starting the job, I was a crew foreman, making enough to afford a small one room apartment not far from the warehouse. I didn't have a car, nor did I see the need for one with the access I had to public transit. My memory still hadn't returned and the doctor seemed to think it might never.

My life at this point consisted of work, occasional beers after work with some of my crew, and regular visits to the local branch of the Philadelphia Public Library system, where I alternated between popular fiction and whatever materials I could find about dealing with memory loss. I walked everywhere I could, jogged three days a week, weather permitting, and found a local gym where I could lift a couple of times a week, continuing to work on restoring my level of physical fitness and controlling my weight.

Felix, one of the more reliable members of my crew, was an avid pistol shooter, an anomaly in a crew that didn't make very much money and was more likely to encounter a handgun pointed at them in the neighborhoods in which they (and I) lived. He and I got to be friendly and he dragged me out to the range in the suburbs where he shot regularly. To his and my surprise, after some practice, I turned out to be a good shot and got interested enough to purchase a small nine millimeter pistol, choosing that particular caliber because ammunition was plentiful and affordable. And although I lacked the necessary permit (one being difficult and expensive to obtain in Philadelphia), I began carrying that pistol during my non-working hours in a pocket holster after having been robbed at knife point on my way home from work one evening.

My life underwent a significant change when, as I left work one evening, I found Susie Hager, one of the support staff in the warehouse office, struggling with a flat tire. Susie was a pleasant, moderately attractive woman, probably ten years younger than I was. I interacted with her regularly as documents relating to incoming and outgoing shipments were handed off to her by the drivers handling such shipments. We were casual acquaintances, not friends or socially connected in any fashion other than working in the same facility.

"Hey, Susie. Can I help?"

"Thanks Pete. I got new tires earlier this year and the tire store tightened the lug nuts so hard I can't get them loose. I was going to call my father, but he's an hour and a half away."

"Let me see that lug wrench."

Susie was right. The lug nuts were so tight they almost felt welded to the lugs. I finally loosened them by standing on the lug wrench and using all my weight to crack the seal. Once I was able to do that, I jacked the car up, finished removing the nuts, pulled the flat and replaced it with the doughnut spare.

"You need to get that tire replaced ASAP. Those doughnut spares aren't intended for long term use."

"I'll do that. Thanks for your help. I'd have had a long wait for help if you hadn't come along."

"My pleasure."

I didn't really think anything more of it, but apparently my helping Susie with that tire resonated with her. A couple of days after I'd changed it, Susie stopped me in the hall as I was dropping documents off in the office.

"Pete, I really need to thank you again. Would you consider coming to my place for dinner one evening? People tell me I'm a good cook and I've heard you live alone, so I'm guessing you might enjoy a meal someone else prepared."

We agreed I'd join her for dinner that Saturday evening. I didn't mention to her that I had no car and the trip would involve either finding a cab (something so rare in the neighborhood in which I lived as to be worthy of comment) or two transfers via bus. Susie's enthusiasm for hosting me was such that I'd make the effort even though it was quite inconvenient.

I had not dated at all since leaving the hospital and had no idea what the conventions for a dinner invitation might be. That wasn't one of those subconscious memories that such an invitation triggered.

One of the neighbors in my apartment house was an older retired woman named Nancy. I bumped into Nancy in the hallway while retrieving my mail from the mailbox.

"Hi Nancy."

"How are you doing, Pete?"

"OK. How about you?"

"Can't complain. It doesn't do any good and nobody listens anyway."

I chuckled, then had a thought. "Say, Nancy, maybe you can help me. I'm going to dinner at a friend's house this weekend and I'm not sure what I should bring."

"Man or woman?"

"Woman.

"Friend or FRIEND?"

"At this point, friend."

"When I was doing such things, I never turned down a nice bouquet of flowers and a decent bottle of wine."

"Thanks Nancy. I can manage that."

And so, after almost seventy-five minutes in transit door to door, I turned up at Susie's with a bouquet of mixed flowers and a bottle of Merlot, courtesy of the local grocery store.

"For me? You shouldn't have."

"It's the least I could do since you're feeding me. I hope you like red wine. I should have asked."

"I love wine and Merlot is my favorite. And this is one I've had before that I quite enjoyed. Thank you. You didn't need to do this. Dinner was supposed to be me saying thank you for helping with the car."

It turned out to be a delightful evening. Susie was not exaggerating when she said she was a good cook. The meal was the best I'd had in years and was far better than anything I could possibly have prepared for myself. In addition, she turned out to be a very pleasant conversationalist. She told me a lot about her background, her having grown up as an only child in Berks County. When she asked about mine, I simply told her that I'd tell her more about myself later, but I didn't want to scare her off with my tale of woe. That got a curious look, although she didn't press the point.

The evening flew by and I was reluctant to leave, although I knew that I'd be walking home if I didn't catch the bus soon. I finally told Susie how much I'd enjoyed the evening, but that I needed to be on my way in order to catch my bus. As I was leaving, I looked at her and said, "Susie, this is the best meal and one of the most pleasant evenings I've enjoyed in years. I really can't thank you enough for this evening. I'd like to spend some more time with you. Would you consider going out with me some evening?"

Susie's face lit up like a beacon. "I'd love to.

"Great. Let me figure out where and when and we can make arrangements next week. I'll see you at work on Monday. Thanks again. I'm really looking forward to getting to know you better."

Susie reached up, pulled my face down, and kissed me on the cheek. "I am too," she said.

That Wednesday, I asked Susie if she'd like to go for a walk along the Schuylkill on Saturday. Both sides of the river have excellent walking paths that run all the way into center city Philadelphia. The east side of the river includes Boathouse Row, a series of buildings which are the home of various rowing clubs. There are sculls out on the river almost any time of the day or evening. She said she'd love to.

We met at the Reading Terminal Market, had lunch, then walked out the Parkway to the base of the walking path. We walked and talked for hours. By the time we finished, we were walking hand in hand. We walked down to Chinatown for dinner, then caught our respective public transit rides back home. Before I put Susie on her subway, I kissed her for the first time. She responded enthusiastically and I promised to take her out again the following weekend.

By now we were eating lunch together in the warehouse most days. People began to notice that we were spending time together. My boss, the warehouse manager, cautioned me about maintaining a professional distance during working hours, something that was becoming increasingly difficult as I spent more time with Susie.

For our three month anniversary, I took Susie to the Jersey shore for the weekend. We spent less time on the beach than I expected, and more time in the motel room. I was completely smitten at this point and Susie was as well.

We'd been dating for a little over four months when her apartment lease came up for renewal. After talking about it for several days, she agreed to move in with me. I had about six months left on my lease and we agreed that once it expired, we'd find another place to live, perhaps even renting a small row home since we were both working and could combine our previous rental payments.

We'd been living together about two months when I came home from a run early one Saturday morning to find Susie sitting at the kitchen table. One look at her face told me she'd been crying.

"Baby, what's wrong? Did something happen to your mom or dad?"

"Oh Pete, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen. I've screwed up all our plans."

What the hell?

"What do you mean? What happened?"

"I'm pregnant." And with that she began to sub uncontrollably.

I'm pretty certain she wasn't expecting my response. I wrapped my arms around her and gave her a massive hug and a kiss.

"Baby, that's great. We're going to have a baby. WE'RE GOING TO HAVE A BABY!!!"

Still sobbing, she managed to get out "You're OK with this?"

"OK? That's the best news ever. We need to tell your mom and dad." I was almost singing as I repeated, "We're going to have a BABY!"

"But what about moving? About finding a better place to live?"

"We'll worry about that later. Right now, we need to celebrate. You're going to be a mommy. I'm going to be a daddy. Your parents are going to be grandparents. We're going to have a baby!"

At that point, I realized something. We weren't married. We weren't even engaged. I needed to fix that post haste.

Kneeling down in front of her, I took Susie's hands in mine, looked at her and said with all the solemnity and gravity I could muster, "Susie Hager, I love you. I want you to be part of my life forever. Will you marry me?"

I could see her hesitate. "You're not asking just because I'm pregnant?"

"No, I'm asking because I love you and can't imagine living without you. Having a baby just makes it even better."

She looked at me for a long moment, then said "Yes! Yes! YES!!!" And so we had her parents to inform and a wedding to arrange.

Susie's dad took the news about her pregnancy far more calmly than I'd imagined he would. Her mother was overjoyed about both the baby and the wedding plans. Susie wanted something simple and low key with only a handful of guests. In the end, we were married in her parents back yard by a local judge her dad knew with just her parents and her aunts and uncles in attendance. We took a long weekend in the Poconos as a honeymoon, planning on something more at a later date after the baby was born and we were more established. In the meantime, we were putting away every dime we could in anticipation of Susie's being a full time mom for at least a while after we had the baby.

I was over the moon with our situation. I know some people would think a couple of blue collar warehouse workers couldn't possibly be happy, but they'd be wrong. For the first time since awakening from my beating, I had a family and could envision a long term future. I might not know anything about my past, but I could see sunshine and roses going forward. I had a wife I loved and who loved me and a baby on the way. In my mind, nothing could keep us from living our best lives together for the rest of our lives.

And then I went out for a gallon of milk one Saturday afternoon and blew our lives to hell and gone.

Felix and I had continued to shoot regularly, mixing bullseye target shooting with action pistol shooting, and I had continued to carry a concealed handgun because the neighborhood had not gotten any better with time. I'd walked the two blocks to the little corner store run by Mr. Kim, a Korean man in his sixties who had raised a family running the store and still lived above it with his wife. Unlike modern convenience stores, this little corner grocery was laid out in such a fashion that the shelves concealed customers rather than making them visible from the cash register or the entrance. It was a testimony to Mr. and Mrs. Kim's persistence and hard work that they'd managed to make a living out of the store in this neighborhood while raising three children, all of whom had gone on to college and graduate school. I'd met their oldest son a couple of times when he was visiting, talking to him about how the neighborhood was doing (poorly and continuing to decline) and listening to his concerns about his parents' safety. He wanted them to sell the store, retire, and come live with him out on the Main Line. They had continued to refuse.

I knew the Kim's' store had been robbed at least twice in the last year because I'd seen the police cars outside it and talked to one of the local beat cops. The neighborhood had a gang problem, with both black and Hispanic gangs vying for control. Most of the active front line gang bangers were teenagers. The older members tended to stay more in the shadows, managing what their younger gang members did but not actively out on the streets.

I had picked up the milk and was looking at possibly grabbing some chips when I heard the shop door open and Mr. Kim yell. Peeking out from behind a shelf, I saw two males with guns wearing masks like those we'd all worn during the height of the COVID pandemic. Both were pointing the guns at Mr. Kim. One of them barked at him, "Give us the cash old man." When Mr. Kim hesitated, the other male struck him on the forehead with the gun, knocking him to the floor. Then he reached around and opened the cash drawer.

The sensible thing for me to do would have been to just stay hidden and allow the robbery to be completed. Both robbers were wearing masks, the kind we all wore during COVID, so they were essentially unidentifiable. But I was stupid.

I pulled my handgun out of my holster, stepped into the aisle and took a classic Weaver stance. I could see both robbers. "Drop the guns, put down the cash and leave," I told them. Instead, both turned toward me, raising their handguns as they pivoted. My action pistol training took over. I fired two shots at the nearer robber, then two more at the other. Both shots hit the target center of mass each time and they both dropped. I stepped over, kicked their guns away from them and reached down to check on them. They were both dead. I turned to Mr. Kim, who was struggling to sit up and told him, "Lay down. They can't hurt you anymore." Then I dialed 911 and reported that there'd been a robbery attempt and a shooting, giving the address of the store. Two minutes later, there were four Philadelphia police department cruisers outside the store and the place was overrun with policemen. I'd holstered my gun, but informed the first cop in the door that I was armed, that I'd called 911 to report the robbery, and that Mr. Kim needed an ambulance. He told me to raise my hands and removed my pistol from the holster, then told me to turn around and handcuffed me. One of his fellow officers took me out to a cruiser and placed me in a back seat, leaving the car door open and standing guard over me. I watched Mr. Kim carried out of the store and placed into the back of an ambulance which then drove away with its lights flashing and siren wailing.

A half hour later, I found myself in an interview room at the local precinct house, sitting at a table with my hands chained in front of me. Two overweight men in suits walked in, sat down across from me and introduced themselves.

"I'm Detective Richards and this is Detective Jones. We're investigating the shooting you were involved in. We have some questions for you."

I'd watched enough cop shows on television to know this kind of conversation could go sideways real fast, even if I were completely in the right for what I'd done.

"Before we start any kind of conversation, I'd like to talk with a lawyer."

"That's your right, but it's going to keep you here a lot longer than you would be otherwise."

"I'll take that chance. May I have a telephone, please?"

They brought a phone and I called Phil Coleman, the only attorney I knew. He came right to the point.

"Don't talk to anyone until I get one of our criminal lawyers down there. Where are you?"

I told him where I was, then asked him to call Susie so she knew why I was delayed coming home. He promised to get someone there post haste and agreed to call my wife.

About ninety minutes later, a middle aged guy in a suit walked in and introduced himself. "I'm Tom Bell. Phil Coleman sent me. Let's talk about what happened and why you're here."

I told Tom what had transpired. He interrupted with a number of questions, but finally looked at me and said, "I don't see how you can be in trouble here. You interrupted an armed robbery after the victim had been assaulted. Two guys with masks then pointed their guns at you. You were well within your rights at that point to defend yourself with deadly force. I'm sorry you had to do that, but I can't see any criminal acts here."

Two hours later, the two detectives seemed satisfied that I'd not done anything illegal and, after a call to the duty assistant district attorney who apparently concurred with their analysis, allowed me to leave. They even arranged for an officer to drive me home.

What had happened in Mr. Kim's store was traumatizing, but I would deal with that. What I didn't expect was what came next.

The younger of the two gang members had an aunt who was a leader in the local Black Lives Matter chapter. Jacquie Lincoln did not take the death of her nephew well and, ignoring why he'd ended up dead (robbery and attempting to shoot me), decided to make his death a racial cause celebre.

I don't know who provided Ms. Lincoln with the information, but shortly after I'd been cleared for the shooting, protesters showed up at the warehouse, blocking the street entrances and holding signs calling for my firing, arrest and trial. My boss called the police, complaining that the protesters were trespassing, blocking the entrances to private property and needed to be moved or at least controlled. The response was less than nothing. "No available policemen to patrol private property," was the word. The company's lawyers sought an emergency restraining order but the local courts refused to treat the matter as emergent, meaning that the hearing would not occur for months. My boss finally did the only thing he could do to get rid of the protesters. "Pete, I'm really sorry to have to do this, but the only way these people are going to go away is if you do. Corporate hasn't given me a choice. I have to fire you. I'm really sorry." And with that, I was out of a job.

It got worse. Someone also leaked our home address. I came out one morning shortly after having been fired to find Susie's car vandalized. All of the windows had been smashed, the tires slashed, and "Murderor" (yes, the word was misspelled) painted on both sides of the car. Other than taking a report and telling me to call the insurance company, which totaled the vehicle, the police told me that they could do nothing. Property vandalism, except that of the most politically connected of victims, got nothing more than a file number for the police report. No one would be looking into the matter.

Two nights later, the first brick sailed through our ground floor apartment window. With that, fearing for Susie's and our unborn child's safety, I called Susie's dad and asked him to pick her up and take her back to his home. Of course, that meant she was now no longer able to work, so we were without income.

My landlord apparently was getting severe pressure from both the BLM activists and the other tenants in the building. He came to me and told me he was going to evict us for creating an unsafe environment in the apartment house. With no income, and owing Phil's firm several thousand dollars for representing me in the investigation, I had no choice but to agree to vacate. I rented a truck and with the help of several guys from the warehouse, moved our worldly goods out of the apartment and into Susie's parents' basement, where we'd now be living. Then I began to look for a job.

Away from Philadelphia, I thought my troubles were over. What I didn't count on was the intersection of a fiercely contested primary election for the incumbent district attorney and the political power of the BLM movement in the city. Ms. Lincoln wanted "justice" for her nephew and the price of her organization's support in the primary was going to be prosecuting the man who'd shot him. I had no idea this was going on and was living in my in-laws' house, fat, dumb and happy.

I'd spent the morning job hunting and was sitting at the kitchen table when the doorbell rang. I got up to answer it and found Detectives Richards and Jones, along with a local police officer, standing on the

porch. "Detectives? What can I do for you? Would you like to come in?"

"Mr. Smith, we are arresting you for the murders of Datari Lincoln and Octavius Simson."

"What? You and the district attorney cleared me of any wrongdoing related to that. It was self defense."

I must have been loud, because a very pregnant Susie walked into the living room at that point.

"Susie, please call Tom Bell, the attorney who represented me in connection with the shooting at Kim's grocery store. These detectives have just told me I'm being charged with murder for shooting the two armed robbers."

Turning to the detectives, I said, "Please tell me where you're taking me so my attorney can meet us there. I hope he can straighten this out quickly. Susie is due to deliver our daughter in a few weeks and it's not something I want to miss."

The detectives had the grace to look somewhat uncomfortable, but they turned me around, handcuffed me behind my back and led me to their unmarked police car, where they placed me in the back seat. There was no conversation as we drove back to Philadelphia.

When we arrived at the police station, I was booked and then escorted to an interview room where Tom Bell was waiting.

"What the hell is going on Tom? I was cleared by the cops and that guy from the DA's office. They all concluded it was a clear case of self defense."

"I'm as confused as you are Pete. There's no question that Datari Lincoln and Octavius Simson were in the process of committing an armed robbery, had already attacked the store owner and were about to attack you with handguns when you shot them. It's a tragedy and a hell of a thing to have to admit, but those two young thugs were the cause of their own deaths."

"Then why am I under arrest?"

"This has become political. My firm is hearing through the legal grapevine that the DA needs the support of the local Black Lives Matter chapter to win the nomination at the next election. The president of the chapter is Datari Lincoln's aunt and she has threatened to have BLM support his opponent if he doesn't prosecute you for their murders."

"So I'm just a pawn in a political game. How is that fair? How is that justice?"

"It's not. We're going to do everything we can to put this to bed at the earliest opportunity, but I need to be honest with you. If the DA wants this prosecuted, it will be prosecuted. He might lose at trial, but by then the primary will be over and in Philadelphia being the Democratic Party's candidate is a guarantee of winning in a city wide election."

"So what happens to me in the meantime? Do I rot in jail? I've already lost my job, my apartment and had to move my wife away from her job because of the attacks on our home, which means we now have no health insurance. How much more do I have to put up with for protecting Mr. Kim and myself?"

"I wish I could answer that. What I can tell you is that you'll spend tonight in a cell here and, hopefully, have a bail hearing in the morning. My associates are preparing for that hearing as we speak."

"Thanks Tom. I appreciate all your firm has done for me. But can I ask one more favor?"

"Sure."

"Can you reach out to Susie and her parents and tell them what's going on? I'm sure they're frantic, especially since she's due to have our baby in a few weeks."

"I'll do that. Now just keep your head down and your mouth shut until the hearing. OK?"

"OK."

I spent a very unpleasant night in a cell with three other men. None of us were particularly social. Each seemed lost in his own misery. When the morning came, I was more than ready to be hauled over to a courtroom for a bail hearing. When we got there, Tom and one of his associates, a younger woman lawyer named Nancy Tammi, were waiting for me.

"You're third on the list, so this shouldn't take too long."

The first two cases were relatively minor burglary charges and each of the defendants was granted bail. Now it was our turn.

Tom started out. "Your honor, the defendant Peter Smith is requesting bail in this case. He's married, has a child on the way and the record will show that he intervened in an ongoing armed robbery after the store's owner, Mr. Kim, was attacked by two gun wielding robbers who threatened him with those weapons."

"Is Mr. Smith employed?"

"He was at the time this incident occurred. His employer's facility was disrupted and harassed by Black Lives Matter demonstrators until the employer fired him."

"When is the child due?"

"In a few weeks, your honor."

The judge then turned to the deputy DA handling the matter. "Mr. James. I don't usually see a member of the district attorney's staff as senior as you at these hearings."

The deputy DA grimaced a bit, then began. "Your honor, my presence here shows just how seriously the District Attorney's office is taking this particular matter. The defendant shot and killed two teenagers. He is a danger to the community and needs to be held under the tightest of controls until he is tried for this heinous offense. We are requesting bail be denied."

Tom spoke up. "Your honor, that's outrageous. Those 'teenagers' were gang members actively committing armed robbery."

"I heard you the first time, counselor," said the judge.

Apparently pondering for a moment, the judge then made his ruling. "Bail will be granted in the amount of one million dollars. Next matter, please."

One million dollars? ONE MILLION DOLLARS? The price for a bail bond in that amount would be ten percent - one hundred thousand dollars. Susie and I couldn't raise that much in a year, let alone immediately. Her parents owned a house, but I couldn't ask them to borrow against that because the amount of the bond would be non-refundable and I wouldn't be able to pay them back for years, if ever, given my being unemployed and apparently toxic to potential employers. I was going to be awaiting trial in a Philadelphia jail cell.

Tom promised that he'd try to get the bail reduced to a more reasonable number and that he'd do all he could to expedite the trial. But in the meantime, I was going to be sitting in a jail cell, far away from my wife and my unborn child. And if he didn't succeed in getting the bail set to something we could actually afford, I was going to miss the birth of our child.

The DA's office vehemently opposed any reduction in bail. This was particularly questionable, as a number of murder suspects were granted much lower bails in much less questionable cases. But they seemed to be making life as difficult as possible for me. Politics sucks.

Jail is not a pleasant experience, especially for someone who has no (or at least as far as I knew, had no) criminal background or experience. The situation was exacerbated by there being several members of the same gang as the two robbers I had shot also awaiting trial and being held in the same jail. After the third time I was attacked, Tom did manage to convince the warden to place me into isolation, but that, while safer, just made the whole experience worse. Now I was largely cut off from any kind of social contacts.

The weeks dragged by. Susie went into labor and had our little girl. She named her Petra (after me) and Elizabeth (after her mother). Seeing my daughter born was another memory I'd be missing. It was bad enough that most of my life was a blank slate. Now an ambitious politician was blocking my forming memories I should be able to retain.

In the days leading up to the trial, the district attorney made a huge point about my having no background. According to him, I was hiding an evil past. Why else would I "pretend" to have no memory of life prior to awakening in a hospital room? He had a couple of the city's staff physicians support his "Smith is faking it" comments. All of this got significant press coverage, as did his repeated comments about "vigilante justice" and comparisons of Datari Lincoln and Octavius Simson to Michael Brown and George Floyd, the DA claiming they were the victims of racial hatred and unnecessary force. When the local news media picked up on all these comments and several of the major network affiliates made the upcoming trial their lead stories, flashing "Vigilante Justice" headlines next to my picture, Tom began to take careful notes, thinking he might have a basis for a change of venue motion or an appeal if things went badly at trial. The Inquirer made those comments and my photo their lead front page article. CNN and all three national networks picked up on the story and suddenly I was "Exhibit A" for racially motivated vigilante justice on a national basis. Susie and her parents were scared to death, fearing a repeat of what had happened at work and our apartment. Fortunately, their local police were a lot more responsive than those in Philadelphia and they upped their patrols around Susie's family's home, discouraging any attacks. Because of the publicity and my being in isolation, Susie was reluctant to bring Petra to the jail, so I didn't get to see my daughter until the trial.

Tom's firm filed numerous discovery requests, a change of venue request (denied) and a speedy trial motion, trying to move the case along as quickly as possible. By the time of trial, I'd been rotting in an isolation cell for almost six months. I'd still not held my daughter once.

Tom's trial team included Nancy and a senior paralegal named Ned Ryan who had been the person most focused on reviewing the discovery materials produced by the prosecution. He'd also been the primary investigator for the defense, locating witnesses in advance of trial, sitting in on their interviews, and spending a substantial amount of time inspecting the "crime scene." I didn't know it when the trial started, but Ned had discovered several discrepancies that Tom intended to use to win the case.

The DA's case was fairly short and to the point. The first officer on the scene testified that he'd been sent via a 911 dispatcher's instructions to the location where he'd discovered two dead teenagers, a badly beaten Mr. Kim and me. I'd been armed and had handed over my pistol when requested.

The two detectives then reiterated the contents of my statement to them, confirming that I'd intervened in a robbery and shot the two victims. On cross examination, Tom asked the two whether they'd been able to determine if the victims were armed and who had attacked Mr. Kim. They hemmed and hawed before admitting that there were two handguns discovered on the store's floor and that one of them had blood on it but denied being able to tell who had possession of those guns when the victims were shot. When asked if the guns they discovered had been fingerprinted, the detectives said they didn't know. Tom then asked, "Who would?"

"The evidence technician who processed them."

"And who would that be?"

"I'd have to review the case file to answer that question."

Tom then produced the copy of the case file provided by the DA's office in response to the discovery request and handed it to the detective testifying. "I don't see the name of the evidence technician here," the detective answered.

"Isn't that unusual?"

More hemming and hawing, before the answer. "It should be here. It appears that portions of this file are missing. Maybe someone was sloppy in copying the file."

"Do you have the complete file with you?"

"No, that would be back at the office."

"I see. So if someone certified that they'd produced the complete file in response to a subpoena or discovery request, that would be a lie?"

"I already said that it could just have been an error in copying the file."

"Is there anything else missing that you can note?"

"I don't know. I'd have to review the complete file."

"Are there photos of the alleged crime scene in that file?"

"Yes, there are."

"Would you please show me the photos of the two handguns that were discovered on the floor of the store?"

The detective flipped through the materials Tom had handed him. "Those photos appear to be missing."

"So, this file is not complete and there are at least two key pieces of evidence which would be favorable to the defense missing?"

Silence.

"Your honor, please direct the detective to answer the question."

"Detective, please answer the question. And remember that you are under oath."

"Could you repeat the question?"

Tom did. "You are correct."

"When you were conducting your investigation, did you discover any cameras in the store?"

"We did."

"Were they operable?"

"They were."

"Did they record what happened in the store?"

"They did."

"Did you obtain that recording?"

"We did."

"Can you point to it in this file?"

"It's not there."

"I see. Another copying error?"

Turning to the judge, Tom said, "Your honor, there appears to be a serious Brady violation here. Key pieces of evidence that might serve to exonerate the defendant appear to have been omitted from the discovery provided by the DA's office. We ask you to order the DA's office to produce all of the missing materials immediately and ask that you consider dismissing all charges against Mr. Smith because of prosecutorial misconduct. In addition, we ask that you report this misconduct to the state supreme court's ethics commission and ask for an investigation immediately."

The deputy DA trying the case came flying out of his chair. "Your honor, we object. This is nothing more than a clerical error."

The judge looked down at the deputy DA and smiled. "So you have no objection to producing the original file immediately, counselor?"

"None, your honor."

"Well then, we'll be in recess for lunch. I want that complete file in my courtroom when I finish eating. One hour. No more."

In the chaos, no one had thought to remove the jury. You could see that they were intrigued and a couple were clearly concerned. For whom, I didn't know.

It was closer to two hours later when the court reconvened. Tom continued his cross examination.

"Detective, do you now have the complete file?"

"I believe so."

"Is there a recording from the store's cameras in that file?"

"There appears to be."

"May I see it, please."

The detective handed Tom a DVD.

"Your honor, may we have this played for the jury?"

"Don't you want to review it first counselor?"

"No, your honor, we're quite confident what it will show."

I heard gasps from several jurors and the detective and the assistant DA both looked ill.

A bailiff was sent to locate a television and a DVD player, which were brought into the courtroom and set up so the judge, lawyers and jury could see the recording played.

You could have heard a pin drop as the recording began showing on the TV. Two masked men walked into the store holding handguns. You could see one of them saying something. Then the other struck Mr. Kim on the head with his gun. As I stepped into the picture, both of them turned toward me, raising their guns. I fired two shots at each, hitting them with each shot. They dropped to the floor. I went over, kicked their guns out of reach and checked both of them, confirming they were dead, then pulled out my phone and dialed 911. Then I began caring for Mr. Kim until the first police officer arrived on the scene.

When the DVD stopped playing, the room exploded. Reporters went dashing from the room, cell phones in hand, to call in the story. Jurors began talking to one another. The spectators were buzzing. Finally, the judge began pounding his gavel. "Order in the court! ORDER!"

Turning to the assistant DA, he asked, "Counselor, do you have something to say?"

"I'm sorry, your honor. I don't understand your question."

"Counselor, that's the clearest case of self-defense I've ever seen in all my years on the bench. The police and your office have had that video since the day this incident occurred. If you never reviewed it, your office and you were grossly negligent. If you did review it and brought charges anyway, your office violated Mr. Smith's civil rights. I've heard a lot about this case in the hallways. The consensus of opinion is that the DA was playing politics bringing it. If there were any doubt about that, seeing this video removed it from my mind."

Turning to Tom, he said, "Counselor, I'll entertain a motion for a finding of not guilty."

"So moved, your honor."

"Does the assistant district attorney have anything to say before I rule on this motion?"

"No your honor."

"The motion is granted. Mr. Smith, I find you not guilty. In addition, I want to express my apologies for what the justice system has put you through. I would advise you to consult with your attorneys about bringing a civil rights suit against the city and the DA's office in particular. You are free to go."

Turning to the jury, the judge said, "Thank you for your service. I want to apologize for the disruption to your lives that having to sit through this trial have put you through. I'm truly sorry for the breakdown in the system. You are all free to go as well."

With that, the judge banged his gavel and declared court adjourned.

Susie had been sitting behind me all though the trial. I stood up, turned around and staggered as she jumped into my arms. "Oh Pete. I've missed you so much. Mom has Petra out in the hallway. Let's go introduce you to our daughter and then let's go home."

Tom, Nancy, Ned and I walked out of the courtroom into a crowd of reporters and cameras. From all directions I kept hearing "Mr. Smith! Mr. Smith!" as each reporter tried to get my attention. I ignored all of them, looking for Mrs. Hager and my daughter. With Ned and Tom's help, we pushed though the media mob and found the two of them on a bench in the hallway. Seeing us coming, Mrs. Hager lifted Petra out of her stroller and held her out to me. I took her in my arms, holding her carefully, almost afraid to touch her for fear this was all a dream. She looked up at me and cooed, then grabbed my finger with her little hand.

The media continued to crowd around us. "Please leave us alone. You have done enough damage to my life and reputation. I am meeting my little girl for the first time and I'd like to be alone with her and my family. Mr. Bell will be happy to answer any questions you might have and I can assure you he'll be much better at doing that than I would be. Now please get away from us."

Tom and Ned helped us push through the media again and we headed for the elevator. Minutes later, were out of the courthouse and headed toward the parking garage where the Hagers' car was parked. For the first time in months, I was free to look up at the sky and breathe the air free of concern for my future. I'd still need to find a job, but I was free, declared innocent by the judge, and on my way home with my wife and daughter.

Tom did a masterful job of lambasting the DA's office for charging me and putting me on trial. Then he put the city and the DA's office on notice that his firm would be filing suit on my behalf for wrongful prosecution and violation of my civil rights for failing to provide all of the exculpatory evidence in the prosecution's possession.

I'd like to tell you that the local and national media gave my acquittal and the exculpatory evidence the same prominence that they'd given the DA's "vigilante justice" comments, but I'd be lying. The story of the acquittal and the concealment of the evidence in my favor was buried on page 6 of the newspaper with a misleading headline designed to incline the reader to skip the story. The local "news" stations mentioned the acquittal without details and completely omitted the concealment of evidence issue. The national media ignored the outcome completely.

All of that notwithstanding, I was just happy to be free and home. The Hagers had a celebratory dinner with the extended family, all of whom seemed happy about the outcome of the trial. I held Petra through the entire meal and only released her when Susie told me she needed to be fed, something only Susie could do.

Mr. Hager's brother owned a cabin in the Poconos. He gave us the keys and told us to go spend a week reconnecting. Susie was definitely ready to reconnect, as was I, and we gave the bed frame a workout that confirmed its soundness. In between sessions, we talked, laughed, cried and played with our daughter. We were a family again.

When we got home again, Mr. Hager pulled me aside. "So Pete, what are your plans now that you're free?"

"I'm hoping to rebuild our lives. I don't think we'll go back to Philadelphia. Susie likes living out here closer to you and we want you to be able to spend as much time with Petra as you can. I plan on finding a job that will allow us to afford an apartment and stop freeloading off you. You've been more than generous and I feel like I'm taking advantage of you."

"Nonsense. You're family. You needed help and we were in a position to give it. We've loved having you here. But I do have something I need to talk to you about. Would you be interested in working for a contractor buddy of mine? He's looking for help and he's willing to teach you what you'd need to learn."

"That would be fantastic. When can I meet him?"

"How about tomorrow? Here's his address."

And so I began training as a contractor. Ben Simmons was an excellent boss and a fantastic teacher and mentor. I was confident he'd train me well and the salary he offered was sufficient to allow Susie and me to move out of the Hagers' house and into our own little two bedroom rental townhouse.

While this was going on, Tom's firm had prepared and filed a lawsuit against the city and the DA's office. They also sued the DA individually, alleging that his actions were such that any immunity he might claim was negated because they were personal, not performed in his role as the DA.

Again, as you might have expected, the suit got very little media attention. It dragged on for over a year, with subpoenas, depositions, document requests and a flurry of motions and counter motions by the various parties.

The primary had come and gone, as had the general election, before the suit was ready to be tried. Not surprisingly, given the total lack of attention paid by the media, the DA had been re-elected. Tom's firm had filed an ethics complaint against the DA, which was dragging along, the ethics commission apparently awaiting the outcome of the lawsuit before making a decision.

With a trial date finally approaching, the city solicitor's office reached out to Tom with a lowball offer to settle the case. As Tom told me later, when he finished laughing, he said "If that's the best you can do, we'll see you at trial. We think this case is worth seven digits and the first digit isn't a one. And by the way, we want any settlement to include the DA's personally paying at least ten percent of the amount settled and making a personal public apology to Pete Smith and his family that you will ask all of the local media to carry live." Tom told me that the attorney from the solicitor's office gasped at that last statement.

In the end, the case settled on the courthouse steps. The city's taxpayers were on the hook for $1.5 million dollars and the DA ended up contributing fifty thousand dollars to the pot, most of which probably came out of campaign funds. We did get a public apology, but the news media refused to carry it live and all three stations buried it, giving it less than thirty seconds of coverage. The state ethics commission finally ruled, privately reprimanding the DA for his actions, a discipline that didn't faze him one bit.

By the time we'd paid the lawyers and cleared up any outstanding debts from my hospital stay, Susie and I ended up with enough for a down payment on a small three bedroom house about twenty minutes from the Hagers' house. Susie was pregnant again and I was doing well working for the contractor. Apparently I'd done much of this kind of work before, because I seemed to have muscle memory for a lot of the things I needed to do.

I'd largely accepted that I'd never know who I'd been or what I'd done before waking up in that hospital room. Then one sunny Saturday morning, as I was out mowing our lawn, I saw a car pull up in front of the house and a couple in their late fifties or early sixties got out and walked over toward me.

"David, it's so good to see you. We saw the news and thought the person they were calling Pete Smith was you."

"I'm sorry. Who are you?"

"You don't remember?"

"No, I'm sorry. Are you sure you have the right person?"

"Yes, we are. You're David Martin. We're Jason and Melissa Daggett. We were your foster parents for five years. When you aged out of foster care, you lived with us in Aliquippa for another year, then moved to Pittsburgh to work as a carpenter. You disappeared one day. Just vanished, stopped returning phone calls, left your apartment without moving out, abandoned your job. We thought you might have died and no one found your body."

"That's all very interesting, but I don't have any memory of any of this. Do you have any proof?"

"We have some photo albums and some other records we recovered from your apartment when we helped your landlord clean it out. We've brought them with us because we thought you would want them."

Jason popped the trunk and brought out a box.

"Would you like to come in? I'm sure my wife would like to meet you and hear more about my background."

"We'd be delighted."

I took the box from Mr. Daggett and the Daggetts followed me into the house. I called out to my wife.

"Susie, this is Mr. and Mrs. Daggett. They knew me from before I lost my memory."

Susie looked at the two of them, a couple in their early sixties. "Could I offer you some coffee or tea?"

"That would be lovely," Mrs. Daggett responded. Susie headed for the kitchen and I could hear her putting a pot of coffee together and the teapot on the stove.

"So, David, you don't remember us at all?" asked Jason.

"No, I'm sorry, but I don't. I have no memories at all of my life prior to waking up in a hospital in Philadelphia. Everything prior to that day is a complete blank. It's as if I suddenly appeared there out of nowhere."

"Let's go through some of the things we brought to see if any of it helps you recall."

Jason opened the box and pulled out a photo album. "We always put one of these together for every child we fostered, even if we only had them for a short time. We wanted them to know someone cared enough to preserve their memories."

Susie had come in to sit beside me on the sofa while the tea water heated and the coffee brewed. Jason handed me the album               and we began to go through it.

It was bizarre. The photos were of me from early teen years up until I'd left the Daggett's home. I could recognize myself, but nothing else seemed familiar. It was an experience akin to looking at someone else's vacation photos. You knew the person in the photos, but the experience captured was theirs, not yours, and so they were interesting but not really meaningful.

"Thank you for this. It doesn't bring back any memories, but I appreciate having evidence of my existence prior to my awakening in the hospital. Can you tell me something about my background?"

Melissa began to speak. "According to the agency, your father was never a part of your life. He apparently ran off as soon as your mother told him she was pregnant. Your mother had some substance abuse problems, both drugs and alcohol. She finally OD'ed. Children and Youth Services had you on their radar screen for a number of years before your mother's death and they brought you to us after she died."

"What was her name?"

"Andrea Martin."

"And my father's name?"

"We don't know. He's not listed on your birth certificate."

"So the two of you raised me after my mother died?"

"That's correct. You went through the rest of middle school and then high school in Aliquippa. You weren't college oriented and so you went to tech school, majoring in carpentry. After you graduated, you lived with us for a year and worked for a local contractor. When his work dried up, you moved to Pittsburgh and landed a job with contractor there. As nearly as we can tell, you drove out to Philadelphia one weekend to see a baseball game and just disappeared. We reported you missing when your boss contacted us and said you'd vanished. No one knew what happened to you until the trial made the news."

Susie had stepped out and brought in coffee, tea and some cookies.

"What about the rest of my family? Grandparents? Aunts or uncles? Brothers or sisters?"

"CYS couldn't find any family. We don't know if your mother was estranged from them or if there just weren't any living family members."

I sat and thought for a few minutes. "So I'm not going to turn out to be the long lost heir to a fortune?"

Both Daggetts laughed. "Not likely. Just another guy trying to get by raising a family. Looking at your home and your wife, we'd say you are doing a good job."

At this point, Susie heard Petra whimpering. She'd awakened from her nap. Susie went in to change her and brought her out. "This is Petra, our first child," she said.

"What a darling little girl. You must be very proud of her. And we can see you have another on the way."

"We do. This one's a boy."

"Have you decided on a name?"

"We were thinking Thomas James, after the attorney who handled Pete's trial and my father."

"Not David?"

"Well, until you arrived today, we didn't know David was a name with any meaning."

Turning to me, Melissa asked, "Will you go back to using your birth name?"

"I don't know. In my head, I'm Peter Smith. Everyone I know uses that name. David Martin is a complete stranger. I'll need to talk to an attorney and get some legal advice. My only memories are of being Peter Smith, so changing my identity would be hard. And I'd need to change Susie's and Petra's names as well. So unless the lawyers say I need to do it, I'm going to remain Pete Smith."

We ended up spending the entire afternoon with the Daggetts. They told me as much as they could remember about my prior life, using photos from the album to illustrate some of the stories. Apparently, they'd taken me on several trips around the United States using an RV they owned. I'd been in about 20 states at one point or another. We all had dinner together, including Susie's parents who'd come over to meet the Daggetts and listen to some of their stories about my life.

As the day was ending, Jason asked me to walk him to his car. "Peter, I hope you'll stay in touch with us. We consider you as family and we hope you feel the same. I know we're not blood relations, but we had a life together for quite a while. We really like your wife, your daughter and your in-laws. I hope you'll consider us as friends and maybe even as foster grandparents for Petra and Tommy when he's born."

I promised to give it some thought, exchanged contact information with the Daggetts, shook their hands and watched them drive away. I'd not expected to ever know anything about my background and having them drop into our lives had been a pleasant surprise. I'd have to talk to Susie about if and what kind of relationship we might want to maintain with them.

After the Daggetts left, the Hagers, Susie and I talked about what I should do. Given the Daggetts' role in my life, they thought I should at least make an effort to maintain a relationship with them. I agreed.

And so, life went on.

Susie had Tommy a few months later. The Daggetts agreed to be his godparents and we incorporated them into our lives as an additional set of grandparents for Petra and Tommy. We didn't see them as often as we saw Susie's parents because of the distance to Aliquippa, but they either visited us or we visited them on average every two months. They began spending holidays with us, either coming out to join us with Susie's parents or all of us going out there for the holiday weekend.

The Daggetts also continued bringing me up to speed on my life, pre-memory loss. It was strange hearing them describe things I'd done, since the stories seemed more like something about someone else. Susie was fascinated and had begun making notes and keeping a journal of the stories so she could pass my history down to Petra and Tommy. I finally found out that I could speak Spanish because I'd taken four years of it in high school and had worked extensively with Spanish speaking crews which allowed me to keep it current when most high school language training quickly disappears.

Meanwhile, I was doing well working for Ben. Like many things from my previous life, the muscle memory was still there even if the memory had disappeared, allowing me to pick up skills quickly. Because I was bilingual, I ended up working with a Latino crew and within a year or so was effectively the foreman, since I could communicate with both the customers and the crew.

Then things got even better. Ben was looking to slow down with an eye toward retiring in a few years. Since he and Sally had no children, he started focusing on teaching me the business end of contracting. He let me sit in on bidding meetings and took me to planning board and zoning board meetings. I was a silent note taker at customer conferences. And I regularly sat in on meeting with subcontractors. It was a practical education in how to run a contracting company, taught by a man who'd been doing it and doing it well for decades, not just a classroom experience by a teacher who had limited practical experience. And for some reason, I soaked it up like a sponge. Nothing the Daggetts told me about my high school experience suggested I could learn so quickly, leading me to believe that my indifferent high school results were more related to interest than ability.

We'd been working on this training program for almost two years when Ben called me into his office one morning.

"Pete, we need to talk."

Utto. That was never a good beginning to a conversation.

"What's up?"

"I've told you I'm planning on retiring soon."

"Yeah, you did."

"Well, to prepare for retirement, I need to put someone into a management role who can continue running the company when I step back. I think that person is you."

I was taken aback. I knew Ben wanted me to improve my skills, but I thought that my role would be supporting him, not succeeding him.

"You look surprised."

"I am. I thought you were training me to support you as you stepped back a bit, not to take over."

"Well, my plans have changed a bit. We haven't told anyone yet, but Sally has begun showing signs of dementia. The doctors say it's a relatively slow acting variety and is somewhat treatable with some of the new medications that have recently appeared. But it's pushing my time line up from eventually to immediately. I want to spend as much time enjoying the time we have left together before she can't travel or doesn't know where she is or what she's doing. So I'm going to retire, effective at the end of the quarter. I'm going to make you the new president and put you in charge. I'll still be available by phone or email, but when I retire, you'll be running the company."

"I don't know what to say."

"Say yes. And get ready to run this the way I've shown you. Oh, one more thing. With your new title and responsibilities, I'm going to give you 25% of the company, with options to acquire a majority interest in 5% steps over the next five years. I want you fully invested and Sally and I think this is the best way to assure your continued attention."

"Thank you so very, very much. I'm blown away by your faith in me. Can I tell Susie?"

"How about we tell her together over dinner? Meet us at the country club tomorrow night and we'll surprise her."

We certainly will, I thought.

The four of us met for dinner at the country club the following evening. Susie's parents agreed to watch the kids so we'd have plenty of time to socialize.

After a great meal (the country club chef had previously been a successful upscale restaurant owner who had decided to scale back), Ben took control of the conversation.

"Susie, Pete and I need to tell you something."

I could see Susie tensing up. She didn't think whatever was coming was going to be good news.

"Oh, it's good news, young lady. I'm retiring and your husband is going to be running the company from now on. At the end of the quarter, he'll be the new president. And he's also going to be a 25% owner with provisions to buy a majority interest in the company over time. Once he takes over for me, Sally and I are going to hit the road and see all the things we put on our bucket list all these years."

Susie gasped. "Really? Oh my goodness! How can we ever thank you?"

"You can keep doing what the two of you are doing - work hard, continue to raise your family with the values I've seen the two of you demonstrate, be generous to others, and make sure this big lug here keeps making money for the both of us."

I hadn't expected what happened next. Susie got up, threw her arms around Ben and kissed him on the cheek. Then she did the same with Sally. "You guys are wonderful. You took Pete in when he needed a job, trained him to run the company, and now are giving him the opportunity to do just that. I know we're not related, but don't ever think we don't consider you to be family. Thank you so very, very much."

And so I became the president of a successful little construction company.

The next few years passed in a blur. Ben and Sally got three good years in before she was unable to travel. She passed away a year later. Ben lasted three more years, but it was clear the spark had gone out of his life when Sally left it and he just faded away.

The business continued to succeed. We grew carefully, while continuing to maintain the high level of quality workmanship that Ben had established as the company's brand, giving us a leg up on projects. We were never the cheapest, but sometimes paying more for doing it right the first time is cheaper in the end and our reputation meant that customers were willing to do so. Over time, I became majority owner, then bought Ben's remaining interest out from his estate when he passed away.

The kids grew and thrived, started school, turned out to be much better students than the Daggetts told me I'd been, and generally did what kids do as they begin to establish their own separate identities.

Susie's parents continued to be the kind of grandparents every child wishes they'd had and the Daggetts continued to fill the role as the second set of grandparents they'd adopted. They took great delight in telling my children about their father's life while he lived with them and the children especially loved hearing those stories because their dad couldn't tell them himself. Life was truly good.

Best of all, even though my own memories of life prior to waking up in that hospital remains a blank slate, I've managed to form and retain memories of the events in my life since that day. I set a special value on the process of forming and keeping those memories, because I know how easy it is to lose them. And I don't want any more missing then I already have lost.