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Still, I’ll figure out a way to get him the fuck out of here. I just don’t know how.
Travis needs to learn the basics before I can plan anything. At least I got him better accommodations. We share a suite with a bathroom and a large closet. Communicating with him is useless, but at least he’s beginning to make some noise when I give him something he doesn’t like.
It’s like dealing with a newborn who’s six-foot and some inches, weighs about two hundred pounds, and doesn’t want to cooperate.
If only I could speak with his doctor or a professional about his case. What I see is a guy trapped inside a body that needs lots of healing. I want to know more about his initial diagnosis and what exactly happened to him during that accident. Zamudio swears he doesn’t know. Theyjustfound him.
When I arrive back and install the equipment in the bathroom and the room, Travis glares at me. Those gray eyes bore at my head. If looks could kill, I’d be searching for cover.
“Starting tomorrow, we’re going to switch things around. I got you handles that you’ll use to move around the room. The wheelchairs should be here tomorrow.”
He grunts.
“Save your attitude for someone else. I don’t have time to fuck around. They only hired me for six months. I might squeeze a few more if you make some progress, but if you don’t put any effort into your recovery, I’ll pack my shit and leave soon.”
He stares at me with a challenging glare.
I smirk. “I’m glad we understand each other.”
August 27th
It’s been two weeks since I started working with Travis. In my opinion, the kid has retrograde amnesia. Not that I can confirm it. This kid should be in a rehabilitation facility with therapists, doctors, and equipment. Not just at a mansion guarded by guerrillas.
His only hope is a retired SEAL with a couple of doctorates in physical and occupational therapy. I don’t know how much I’ll be able to help him. Sure, I’m qualified, but not for a guy like him who needs the medical support that he requires. Zamudio disagrees with my assessment, but he buys all the gear I request to work on his son’s recovery.
“What if you bring in a neurologist?” I suggest one evening after Travis falls asleep.
We haven’t left the room, but he’s been using his arm strength to move around the bedroom. It doesn’t seem like much, but there’s progress. He hates communicating with me through picture cards, but he’s doing it anyway. I expect that’ll motivate him to speak soon.
“We need a second opinion about Travis’s prognosis,” I say, knowing the asshole is ignoring me.
“Stop trying to tell me what to do with my son,” Zamudio barks.
“Hear me out,” I say, keeping my cool. “In my opinion, I believe the brain damage is different from what your doctor told you. My guess is that something in the area where the explicit memories are stored was damaged.”
Zamudio glares at me. “What’s that?”
“It’s where we store the general facts and information. Whenever he sees you or his brothers, he doesn’t recognize you. Yet, he’s learning what I’m teaching him. Though he has a long way to go, he’ll be running in no time. I just don’t know how to help him with his memory.”
He tilts his head, cocking a brow. “You’re telling me he can’t remember us?”
I shake my head. “Yes. My gut says this kid might have amnesia.”
“Are you telling me he forgot everything?”
Is this man for real? That’s what I’ve been telling him all along, but he just doesn’t want to understand.
“Yes. Travis forgot everything, including how to talk, eat, and walk. He behaves a lot like a baby who’s beginning to take his first steps and say his first words.” Not that he’s said anything, just grunts when he’s unhappy about something—which is all the time.
Zamudio frowns. “That’s possible? How can we make him remember?”
“I’m not sure. That’s why I’m suggesting a specialist, like a neurologist.” Is this how things are going to work with him? I have to figure out the angle and repeat myself a million times before he does what I need him to do?
What the fuck am I doing here? I should just quit and count my losses. But then, I remember the guy in the room. When I’m not looking, he’s lost. The only times when he’s calm and zen is when I play classical music. He likes when I play one of my favorite artists, Piper.
If we can’t bring a neurologist, I might try to contact a music therapist and ask for help. That might help him heal too.
Zamudio shakes his head. “That’s not happening. I don’t want more people to know about us. Can you try something else?”
