A Little Bit of Déjà Vu (40 page)

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Excerpt from The Memory of You

Winner of Romance Writers of America
^®
Golden Heart
^®
Award

She can’t forget him—He can’t remember her

Together they must discover the healing power of unforgettable love

Second Lieutenant Matthew Foster was captured in Vietnam and mistakenly declared dead. Six years later, he’s finally released with the other POWs during Operation Homecoming. Unfortunately, posttraumatic stress disorder has erased his memories, and prior facial trauma and the beard concealing his gauntness have left him looking nothing like the boyish photo in his military file

Matt is naturally distraught when the Army informs him he has a wife. He’s sure Abby must have made a new life for herself. Not to mention, he doubts the bitter man he’s become can salvage enough of the lighthearted boy she once cared for to reclaim the love the war stole from him. Consequently, to be fair to Abby, he decides to simply write a note to wish her well and leave. But before he does, he can’t resist going to Redemption, PA, to catch a glimpse of the woman he’d loved enough to marry.

The irony of the small town’s name is totally eclipsed by Matt’s dread that he’ll discover he’s lost something truly worth remembering. That fear becomes reality when he learns Abby is engaged, and he’s a daddy! Luckily, his wife doesn’t recognize him, so Matt could still walk away from the beautiful stranger who’s been starring in his X-rated dreams. However, he could never, ever abandon his son

 Chapter 1

2 April 1973

Clark Air Force Base, Luzon Island in the Philippines

The streaked window of the base hospital magnified the afternoon sunshine, radiating its warmth across the bed with the intensity of a heat lamp. Lieutenant Mac McCartney swiped his finger over his plate and licked it, savoring the last of the spicy tomato sauce. He glanced at the captain sharing his semi-private room. “I may not be able to recall much about my life, but I’m now sure I liked lasagna—
a lot
.”

“If you like the food here, that proves you’ve been deprived,” the captain muttered, shoving his tray away.

“Amen.” A feminine voice drew their attention to the door where Mac zeroed in on a dynamite pair of legs. “I’m glad to see you’re cleaning your plate. You need the calories.”

He slid off the edge of his mattress and stood, letting his gaze wander over the woman’s long russet waves and centerfold curves. He wiped his mustache and beard with his napkin. “Everything tastes a lot better when you’ve got teeth.”

The day before, the dentist had finished the bridgework to replace the three incisors he’d been missing since he’d woken up over six years ago in the North Vietnamese POW camp with no memory.

Who was this woman? She was dressed way too nicely to be a nurse or an aide.

“Hello, Lieutenant, I’m Dr. Katherine Grant. I’m taking over your case.” The woman flashed a brilliant smile and extended her manicured hand. The heady scent of her perfume mingled with the antiseptic odor that, by all rights, should peel the institutional green paint from the walls. Apparently, the military got some sick sadistic pleasure from assigning a woman who looked and smelled like her to treat a sex-starved man.

He shook her hand, ashamed of his chauvinistic assumption. Why shouldn’t she be a doctor? “So how many of my two hundred and six bones did they break?”

She flipped through his chart. “You really should be asking which bones they
didn’t
break. All things considered, you’re in remarkably good physical condition. Although, your body isn’t why I’ve come to see you. I’m a psychiatrist.”

If they’d assigned a shrink to his case, they must have decided he was bonkers.

Recalling his rusty manners, he dragged the chair from the corner and placed it next to his bed.

Before seating herself, she pulled the curtain between him and his roommate. It was sort of ridiculous since there was no such thing as
privacy
in a semi-private room.

The doctor settled in the chair and crossed one stocking-encased knee over the other. “Seeing as you chose Paul McCartney as your name, I assume you like his music. Do you mind if I call you, Paul?”

 “Actually, I’ve been going by
Mac
.” He settled back onto the edge of the hospital bed.

“Okay, Mac. Can you tell me what you remember?”

“Everything except details about my life. I seem to know a lot about electrical and mechanical engineering as well as science—particularly biology and anatomy and physiology.”

“That explains why you know the exact number of bones in a human being.” She jotted down some notes on her yellow lined pad. “Anything else?”

“I have vague recollections of things that happened to me as a kid, and I have awful nightmares that I can’t remember after I wake up.” He also had vivid memories of sex, but no way would he tell her about them. “I remember having a sister.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “And the name, Abby.”

The doctor’s forehead furrowed, suggesting this information had some significance. “You seem disturbed by that name. Why do you think that is?”

“You’ve got me. Thinking about it makes my chest hurt, so I try not to. Weird, huh?”

“No. When a patient with dense retrograde amnesia loses only biographical memories, we pretty much rule out a pathological cause. So a physical response, like the tightness in your chest, isn’t unusual if the memories you’ve repressed are stirred.”

“So you’re saying my problem
isn’t
from a head injury?”

“I seriously doubt it. Since you’ve retained your world knowledge, it’s highly unlikely your memory loss has anything but a psychogenic origin. I believe it’s simply a manifestation of a dissociative disorder caused by psychological trauma. In the past, doctors would’ve called your condition shell shock or battle fatigue. But we’ve recently begun classifying soldiers with residual effects from the war as having post-Vietnam syndrome.”

In other words, it was all in his head.

Dr. Grant absently tapped her pen on his chart. “The mind is something we still don’t know enough about, Mac, but we do know it’s a survivor. Your subconscious will do whatever it takes to keep you mentally at ease. This Abby may be connected to the psychological trauma that caused your amnesia.”

“Great. So I’m stark raving mad.”

“No.” She smiled. “You’d be crazy if your mind hadn’t shut down to protect your sanity. Right now, you’re comfortable and safe. You’ve been Mac a long time, so it’s going to take a while for your subconscious to feel secure enough to release your memories. Be honest. Do you really want to remember?”

Mac let his mind wander back to the day his captors realized he’d lost his memory and had thrown him into a pitch-black pit dubbed
The Hellhole
. He’d nearly crapped his pants when a hoarse whisper broke the dark silence. “I guess they forgot they already threw me in here this morning.”

“
Shit!
I thought I was alone.” He winced, from the pain in every inch of his battered body.

“Shh. Keep your voice down.” The man squeezed his arm in the dark. “If they realize we’re down here together, they’ll put us in the stocks—after they beat us.”

Just what he needed. If they broke one more of his ribs he wouldn’t be able to draw a breath.

“I’m Leonard Washington. What’s your name and where are you from?”

“Truthfully, I don’t know. I don’t remember a thing about my life before this morning. They transferred me here from another camp right after I woke up.” Judging from his missing front teeth, how badly he’d been whipped and beaten, and the burns covering his arms, they must have had him for a while. “I told them my name is Paul McCartney.”

“I suppose that’s as good as any. Personally, I would’ve gone with Elvis. I doubt Charlie would buy a black guy named
McCartney
.”

“You’re Negro?”

“Yeah, does it matter?”

“Hell no. Do you care I’m White?”

Leonard released a soft snort. “Good answer. You and I are going to get along great. Although, you won’t be very interesting if you can’t recall a damn thing about yourself.”

“Believe me, I wish I could.”

“I wouldn’t work real hard at trying to get your memory back. You might find out you lost something worth remembering. And there’s already enough torture going on here.”

“
Mac
?” Dr. Grant touched his arm, yanking his mind back to the hospital in the Philippines. “Are you okay? You spaced out on me.”

“Sorry.”

“I asked if you really want to remember.”

Fiddling with the silverware on his tray, Mac shrugged. “I guess I’m a little nervous. I’ve always felt as if I had something special in my life. Maybe I’m afraid of missing it when I find out I’ve lost it.”

“You’d be the best judge of your motivation. I’m hoping the Department of Defense can confirm an ID on you soon to connect a few more of the dots.”

They’d fingerprinted him almost a week ago, but apparently the request for a match had gotten lost in the shuffle somewhere along the way. The military refused to ship him stateside until they could confirm his status as an American serviceman.

“If not, we can try hypnosis to identify you. But considering your anxiety about learning your past, I’m not sure that will be effective.”

He twisted his mouth. “I guess once Superman is revealed, Clark Kent, the mild mannered reporter, will cease to exist.”

“I know that’s scary. Chin up.” She grinned. “You never know. You may find you have a real fetish for wearing tights and a ca—”

“Hold that thought.” Major Jensen, the administrator in charge of identifying Mac, strode into the room. “The mystery’s solved.”

Mac sprang to attention next to the bed.

The silver-haired officer waved his hand. “As you were.”

Perched on the edge of the mattress, Mac gripped the sheet while the major laid a thin file on the rolling hospital table. “Lieutenant, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but you’re a walking corpse.”

“What?”

“You were listed as
killed in action
. Your dog tags were found in the charred wreckage of the chopper you went down in on 11 January 1967. When your body couldn’t be positively identified among the remains, the Army felt—since the headcount was correct—it was unlikely you survived. So they declared you dead.

“Are you saying they found the body of someone who wasn’t supposed to be on the chopper?”

“I guess. Technically, you should’ve been listed as
presumptive finding of death
.”

“So what’s my name?”

The doctor opened his file and scanned it. “You’re Second Lieutenant Matthew Thomas Foster.”

Matt Foster. No wonder the nickname Mac seemed more comfortable than Paul. The morning the commander of the POW camp had woken him, he’d held a pistol to Mac’s head, and repeatedly demanded his name. Fearing for his life, Mac had spouted off the first one he could think of—Paul McCartney.

It would take some adjustment to think of himself as Matt. He glanced between the doctor and the major. “Don’t you think it’s strange that Mac is so close to my real name?”

“You were probably subconsciously drawn to it. You turned twenty-nine this past January eleventh....” She did a double take at the file and stared at the major. “The same day he was captured?”

“I guess I had one helluva birthday that year, huh?” After having no access to a mirror during his captivity, Matt had seen himself clearly for the first time only ten days ago. “I look at least thirty-five.”

“Actually, I’d pegged you as being closer to forty.” The major chuckled. “I nearly swallowed my tongue when I saw the year you were born. Wait until you see your induction picture.” The major handed him a photo from the file.

Matt analyzed the smooth, youthful face in the picture. He was a good-looking kid, but he looked nothing like Mac—or, uh
, Matt
. The boy’s soft face had perfect symmetry, whereas his had irregular, chiseled features.

“This can’t be me. My hair’s a lot darker brown—at least what isn’t gray. On top of that, my nose is slightly crooked and broader. And there’s a big difference between the two sides of my face. Someone must’ve made a mistake.”

The doctor took the picture and glanced back and forth between him and the photo. “He’s right, Major. He doesn’t look like this boy. Are you sure there wasn’t a mix-up?”

“No. I thought the same thing, so I went back and had your ID double-checked. Your fingerprints are a match. You’re definitely Matthew Foster.”

“Maybe someone else’s picture got stuck in my file.”

Dr. Grant scrutinized the photo. “Mmm....no-o, I don’t think so. I see a resemblance in the eyes.” She tapped the three-by-five glossy. “You were probably a late bloomer.” She flipped through his medical chart. “The remodeling in your x-rays show half the bones in your face were fractured at one time or another. They’ve healed nicely, but I’m sure those skeletal changes could’ve altered your facial structure significantly.”

The major studied the picture again. “Maturation alone could account for a lot of the difference. What you went through probably aged you faster than normal.”

“If you didn’t have the evidence to prove it, I’d never believe I’m this Matt Foster guy.”

The doctor sorted through the folder. “Matt, some people change a lot more than others as they age. Being twenty pounds underweight and that beard don’t help. And your bridgework probably changed the whole shape of your mouth.”

It felt weird being called something other than Mac. “I guess it makes sense. What else do you know about me?”