Monday, June 04, 2007

Paul/Deniyce - What Happened to Me

I never made it to Boston. Obviously.
I never got to meet up with Art or Ashlyn, and never got theirassistance in getting my body and identity back. Now, from reading this blog, somebody else is me (and somebody else is Ivy). It doesn't look like Art was able to get any information about who those people are (or rather used to be).
Great. Another mystery for me to solve.
Unfortunately, due to my circumstances (which I will explain below) , I cannot contact “myself” at the law firm, or any law firm for that matter, or I will put myself in serious
danger. I am not as panicky as I was on my e-mail to Art, but no lessdesperate. I did not get a response to my e-mail to Art (although Isee that Ashlyn posted it), but she, or somebody else, added me as acontributor to the blog. I can see that many victims of the TradingPost Inn post their portion of the blog there, so, I will discontinuethe blog that I started, and will post to this blog.
Deniyce Miles. Deniyce Alicia Miles, to be exact (no comments aboutthe initials D.A.M., please. `Nisi to her/my friends and family.It has been quite an adjustment. It turns out the body is 21 yearsold (so I am almost half of my chronological age), is married, and has a 2 ½ year old son. I am "home" now in Fort Lauderdale, Florida.
Maybe I had better pick up where I left off (in the e-mail). Please excuse me if I move quickly through some things, but I am typing this at an internet café. I was able to persuade "my" husband, Andre, to take "my" son to get a haircut, and that I would okay sitting in this internet café'. My time is limited until I get a real computerat "home." This guy is being extremely nice to me (for reasons which I have not figured out, and which appear to be way over the topeven for somebody getting their missing wife back). I am going to ask him to buy me a laptop, with one of those biometric things thatread finger prints, to block anybody from accessing it.
I need to use this blog to find the real Deniyce, and, if possible, communicate with person in my body. Anyway, as I said in the e-mail, I ditched the rental car and laptopin the parking lot of a mall on the outskirts of Boston. I wascareful to remove all fingerprints of this body, or any evidence which would trace the disappearance of Paul Miller to me. As it turns out, I guess I should not have been as concerned (had I been thinking straight), because there is a replacement Paul Miller almost 2 weeks later. He'll have to deal with how the car and computer gotinto that parking lot. I do not remember the name of the mall.
I went inside to get some coffee from a Starbucks, when I noticed people looking at me strangely. I mean, I STILL was not used to people looking at me as a woman, a strikingly beautiful woman. I am especially unnerved by the admiring stares of black men. Even thethough of having to be like this for the rest of my life, and be with a black man, is enough to make me hysterical. I have to consiously block it out of my thoughts, or else I'll go crazy.
While I am buying coffee and a danish (I was starving at that point),an older man came up to me, and asked, "Excuse me miss? Do I know you? Are you a celebrity or something?"
I had to bring up the image of what this body looked like in mymind's eye. She didn't remind me of any celebrity I knew, but thenagain, I didn't have a lot of time, with my schedule, to watchtelevision.
I meekly responded in that high, thin soprano, "No. I'm nobody. Idon't think you know me."
However, the older man persisted, and was soon joined by some otherpeople."No, I'm sure that I've seen you on television before . . . . "
The man stopped mid-sentence.
A younger guy, maybe in his mid-twenties, pointed at me, and exclaimed, "Yeah. She was that woman who disappeared last September or October. Her picture was all over CNN. They had a nationwide search for her."
Everybody, maybe eight people, began to nod in agreement.
"No. That's not me," I said, putting down my recent purchases, and looking for an exit.
I needed to get out of there as soon as possible. The sense of panic that I'd gotten under control from the initial transformation was back in full force, gripping my heart and stomach with it's evil fist.
I hadn't gone more than a few steps, when I heard somebody behind me yell, "Security. OVER HERE! IT'S THAT MISSING WOMAN . . . . "
Needless to say, I didn't make it out of there. The much bigger security guards were able to easily subdue me. They tried to ask me questions about who I was, and where I was, but I was not able toanswer them. In a short period of time, I found myself in an interrogation room of the Boston Police.
Again, the Detective, Detective Tommy Brown, I beleive, tried questioning me about who I was, where I'd been, etc., but I was honestly not able to tell him anything. (I could not reveal thedetails of Paul Miller's life, where he'd been, and what happened to him. I realized in my trip away from the Inn, I had to keep it asecret, in order to preserve any chance of getting my real body back).
Detective Brown began to call me "Denise," but I still did not register any recognition about who I or she was.T hat's when they got a Police Psychologist and physician involved. By that time, my bruises were pretty much faded, so that did not arouse any suspicions. Only I knew about the bruises, and their location (and what that might mean).
Through the Psychologist, I was able to learn the identity of the body I wore, Deniyce Miles, married to Andre Miles, with a son, Andrew Miles. Disappeared September 24th from her home in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Hasn't been seen since, until the apprehension at the mall. They asked me questions over and over again for what must have been 48 straight hours about her life and what happened. Nothing. I was a complete blank.
Finally, all of the experts had agreed that I had to have undergone some emotional trauma that was so severe that it caused complete amnesia. That was definitelly good for me because it would provide me a safe harbor to work from. It also gave me a safe harbor away from a husband that I had yet to meet. It had occured to me, sometime in between the interrogation sessions, based upon the bruising pattern, and the fact Deniyce had just dropped out of sight,that she was running away from something . . . something very bad. Most likely, her husband.
If he beleived that I didn't remember anything, I would not be an immediate threat to him. I also learned that it took the Police about 48 hours to contact Andre Miles, because he was the main suspect in Deniyce's disappearence. There was even suspicion of murder. They were notable to find any physical evidence to arrest him. One of the underlying reasons for my intense questioning, was to develop any evidence against Andre.
Within a few days, "my" husband arrived at the Boston Policedepartment for a "happy" reunion with his wife. He was overjoyed,and actually shed some tears. I was standoffish. That was when they explained my traumatic amnesia to him. His reaction was unique. It was a mixture of shock . . . and relief. Something was going on here. Another mystery that I had to solve. I was getting quite a list of them.
I was going to be busy, while hiding behind a shield of forgetfulness. I was kept for observation for a few days at Boston Memorial, while they ran every possible manner of tests on me. Still there were not any physical reason for the amnesia. It was definitely and emotional trauma in their opinion. The experts spent some time instructing me, and Andre, sometimes together, sometimes separately, how to go about trying to expose me to things to trigger memories. The bottom line here was that I was going to have to go with Andre back to Florida, far away from the world I knew, to live his wife's life.
The prospect was not what I wanted. However, I did have an identity now.
A few (awkward) days later, we arrive home at the house of Deniyce and Andre. It was a small, rundown place off of a road called Sistrunk Boulevard. It was the African-American section of Fort Lauderdale. No sooner did I get inside the house, than I was bombarded by Andre's family and Deniyce's family. They asked rapid fire questions.
Suprisingly, Andre came to my rescue by telling everybody, "No questions. 'Nisi (the first time I heard her/my nickname) has amnesia. The doctors say we have to let her get her memories back on her own, at her own pace. We just have to be there for her. Let's just be happy she's home."
Suddenly, a cute little boy (that looked a lot like Andre) burst through everybody, and hugged my leg.
"Mommy, Mommy. I am so gald you're home. I missed you so much."
Just the expression on his face made me burst into tears.
"What's wrong, Mommy?" the boy said, confused.
Andre bent down, picking up the child, and explaining, "Mommy doesnot remember you son. Let's just give her some time."
Then he started crying. It made me cry harder.
All of the family has gone back to their own lives now. Leaving me with my makeshift family. Andre (thankfully) is sleeping on the couch, leaving me the bed. He hasn't pushed me on any physical affection. He also seems to be bending over backwards to give me whatever I want.
The only thing which has challenged this domestic bliss, is whenAndrew made the observation, "Mommy? You don't sound like you used to."
I have to be very wary, or else Andre may think that I am faking my amnesia. That could be very, very dangerous.
I'll write again when I have my new computer.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

It's good to hear from you again. I was slightly worried when you never made it to Boston. Let me know if there's anything I can do to help.