Under the Mistletoe with John Doe. Judy Duarte

      His tone, as well as the question, took her aback. And she didn’t know what to tell him. In truth, there wasn’t any reason for her to come back to see him, but she couldn’t seem to bow out completely. “I’ll stop by around dinnertime.”

      He smiled. “I’ll look forward to it.”

      There went her heart rate again, and she struggled with the wisdom of a return visit. Yet she nodded, then turned and walked out of his room.

      She wasn’t exactly sure what had just happened in there. But she blamed it on a lack of sleep.

      And a lack of sex, a small voice whispered.

      Oh, for Pete’s sake. Her self-imposed celibacy had been working out just fine. So why him?

      And why now?

      She’d be darned if she knew—or dared to pursue—the answer.

      John Doe slept off and on the next morning, hoping that eventually he’d wake up with his memory intact. But so far, nothing had come to mind.

      Just before lunch, Dr. Kelso came in to perform some kind of mental evaluation, this one more complex than what he’d had so far. John had passed most of it with flying colors. He had some basic knowledge, although he certainly wouldn’t try his luck on Jeopardy or Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?

      But memories of anything prior to his arrival at the E.R., anything of actual value, had been lost to him.

      “So what’s the verdict?” he asked the neurologist.

      “Well, the good news is that the MRI has ruled out a skull fracture, but you have a cerebral contusion.”

      “What’s that?”

      “It’s a bruise on the brain tissue,” Dr. Kelso had explained. “I don’t think you need surgery at this point, but we’ll keep an eye on it. If it worsens, we may have to go in and relieve the pressure. But for now, we’ll be giving you steroids to lessen any swelling.”

      “What about my memory?” he asked.

      “You have retrograde amnesia.”

      “How long is it going to last? When will I remember who I am?”

      “It’s hard to say. The causes and symptoms of amnesia vary from patient to patient. And so does the recovery process. I’m afraid we’ll just have to wait and see what happens in your case.”

      Great. “How long will I have to stay in the hospital?”

      “That depends, too. I’d say at least a couple of days, maybe a week. But that could change if there are complications.”

      He wondered how he was going to pay the bill. Did he have health insurance? A job?

      Of course, that was the least of his problems now. As it was, he was stuck in limbo—and in Brighton Valley—until his brain healed and his memory returned.

      “I’ll be back to see you later this afternoon,” Dr. Kelso said. “In the meantime, get some rest.”

      There weren’t many other options, John decided, as he settled back into his pillow, hoping to find a comfortable spot. Besides the outside wounds from the tire iron, his brain was bruised. No wonder his head ached.

      As he dozed off and on during the afternoon, he periodically glanced at the clock that hung on the wall across from his bed, wishing that the hours would pass quickly. Dr. Nielson had said that she’d be back around dinnertime, and he couldn’t help looking forward to her return.

      Sure, she was an attractive woman, in spite of the blue scrubs she wore. He wondered what she’d look like dressed in street clothes—maybe a pair of tight jeans and a slinky blouse. A splash of makeup to highlight the color of her eyes. Her auburn curls hanging soft and loose around her shoulders.

      But it was more than the redhead’s pretty face and intense green eyes that appealed to him.

      As he’d watched her leave his bedside this morning, he’d felt as if he’d just lost his best friend.

      But why the heck wouldn’t he? Besides his neurologist and the floor nurse, John didn’t know—or remember—another soul on this planet.

      And each time that dark realization struck, a heavy cloak of uneasiness draped over him, weighing on him until he was ready to throw off his covers, jump out of bed and tear out of this place.

      But where would he go? What would he do? How would he support himself?

      Did he have any skills? A degree? A job that was pressing?

      He’d be damned if he knew.

      Dr. Nielson had said that he’d been asking about someone named Pedro. But who was the guy? And why did he want to find him?

      Maybe he was a private investigator working on a missing-person case, but that didn’t seem likely. For some reason, the real missing person in the whole scenario seemed to be him. And no matter how hard he tried to think or to focus on his name or his past, he drew a complete blank.

      He didn’t even know what day it was, although he suspected it was late November or December because of the Frosty the Snowman trim on the bulletin board in his room.

      The Christmas season, he thought. A time for home and hearth, for family and friends.

      Did he have anyone special in his life? Was there someone who’d been counting on him to come home last night? A wife? Kids? Maybe even a dog or a cat?

      The questions came at him like a volley of rubber bullets, but he had no answers.

      A sense of frustration rooted deep in his gut, making it hard to relax, to sleep, to heal. And no matter what he did, he couldn’t seem to wrap his battered brain around anything. All he had were the details Dr. Nielson had given him, and right now, she seemed to be his only connection to the outside world.

      No wonder he looked forward to seeing her again, to talking to her.

      Maybe, with some time, a little rest and another visit from the pretty E.R. doctor, everything would start falling into place.

      At five-thirty that evening, just before her next shift began, Betsy rode the elevator up to the third floor to look in on John Doe, just as she’d told him she would.

      Again she pondered the wisdom of following up on a patient who was no longer her responsibility. But what was the harm in making one last trip upstairs?

      As she walked along the corridor to the west wing, her rubber soles squeaked upon the polished linoleum floors, announcing her arrival. There was still time to turn around and head back to the E.R., with no one the wiser, but she pressed on.

      Upon reaching the nurses’ desk, where Jolene Collins was talking to someone on the telephone and scratching down notes, Betsy caught a whiff of the dinner cart before she actually saw it. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she probably should take time to pick up a bite to eat in the cafeteria before starting her shift.

      In fact, maybe that’s where she ought to be now, but it was hard to backpedal when she’d already come this far.

      She could reach for her pager, check it and pretend she’d been called to another floor, but the hospital didn’t get amnesia victims every day.

      Or handsome young patients who piqued a single doctor’s interest.

      It was at that realization that she almost did an about-face, no matter how abrupt it might seem to anyone observing her behavior.

      She had no business even imagining anything remotely romantic with a patient, especially John Doe, whose background was a complete unknown. After her divorce, she’d made up her mind to focus on work and to look after her aging parents, the loved ones who had never let her down—and who never would.

      So she shook off the misplaced attraction to John, telling herself that the brief visit would never amount to more