Life on Another Planet Ch. 00-05

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There was no accounting for what happened after the headache.
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Part 1 of the 8 part series

Updated 06/08/2023
Created 08/22/2017
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coaster2
coaster2
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My thanks to ErikThread and Derek for their editing skills and helpful suggestions, as well as the eagle eye of GordonJ who found my little oversights and let me know as he went along. Thank you all three. I hope you enjoy our mutual efforts.

This story doesn't fit any neat category. It isn't really science fiction, more like a fantasy. I'll let you the reader decide where it belongs, but since it's long, I've stuck it in Novels & Novellas.

~*~

Jesse Peterson was an ordinary eighteen-year-old, just finished with high school and planning on attending university in the fall of 1961. Then he got the damn headache and his life turned into something he never imagined.

Life on Another Planet

Prologue

Friday, June 30, 1961 9:30pm

Jesse Peterson sat silently by himself on the top row of the bleachers in the high school gym, his head in his hands, elbows on his knees as he watched his classmates on the floor below him. It was the final dance of the final year of his high school education. He had graduated and would be off to university in the fall. However, unlike his pals, he wasn't in a celebratory mood.

It was bad enough that Don Pollard had stolen his girl, Juliet Crouse. That she had made a display of dumping him had been a dose of humiliation he could have done without. He asked himself for the tenth time what the hell he was doing here. Was he looking for a replacement for Juliet? It wasn't good for a guy's ego to be without a girlfriend for any length of time. Naw, it wasn't that. It must be a latent masochistic streak in him.

Pollard was the quarterback of the modestly successful Ridgeview High School football team, while Jesse was starting second baseman for the baseball team. In terms of competency, it had been Jesse's glove and bat that had been the keystone to their championship year. In terms of status, Don had it all over Jesse. What was that old song? "You've got to be a football hero to get along with the beautiful girls." That was a perverse truth.

Around ten o'clock, Jesse felt the headache which had been resident for most of the day, begin to reassert itself. His closest friends were occupied with their girlfriends on the dance floor and wouldn't miss him. He rose, looked around one last time at the end of this part of his life, and left for home.

~*~

His mother looked up in surprise as he walked in the front door.

"What are you doing home this early?"

"Headache," he said simply without further explanation. "Good night." He walked down the stairs to his bedroom on the lower level of their split-level home while his mother and father looked at each other. His mother was the first to react. She stood and followed her son down the stairs.

She found him in the bathroom, stripped to the waist, searching his medicine cabinet.

"I knew something was wrong when you didn't eat all your dinner. How long have you had a headache?"

"I don't know. Most of the day, I guess. It wasn't too bad. I took some aspirin, but it came back on me a little while ago. I decided to come home and get some sleep. Maybe it'll be gone by morning."

"That's a shame, Jesse. It was your last high school dance ... the graduation dance," she said with some sadness. "Was Juliet there?"

He paused and sighed. "Yeah ... she was there, showing off her new boyfriend."

"Well ... don't get too upset about it. It says something about her character that she'd do what she did. Besides, she's not going on to university, so you won't see her very often, if at all. You're a good looking young guy. You'll find someone who won't treat you like that. Someone you can trust. There are a lot of young ladies to choose from on campus. Thousands, I would guess."

That was his mother, always looking on the bright side, the eternal optimist. Right at that moment Jesse didn't feel very optimistic at all. Right at that moment he just wanted this headache to go away and allow him to get some sleep.

Wednesday, July 5, 1961 10:00 am

"He's burning up, Doctor Phelps," Margaret Peterson said with concern. "I can't seem to wake him for any length of time. What's wrong with him? He's been like this for four days now. He should be in the hospital."

"Now, now, Mrs. Peterson, there's no need to panic. He's contracted some kind of bug and we're running the blood tests to see if we can spot what's happening. We've checked for Meningitis, but there's no sign of that ... happily. We'll just have to keep trying to find the cause. In the meantime, I've given him another shot of penicillin."

Michael Peterson stood by silently, deeply concerned about his son's health. Everything seemed to be trial and error methodology when it came to medicine. He was an engineer. He thought in straight lines. You gather the information about what isn't performing normally, and you track the various components one by one to determine the cause. This was day five of his son's mysterious illness and as yet they had not determined the cause. In his gut, he knew this was more serious than Doctor Clive Phelps was letting on.

He could see the fear in Margaret's eyes. She knew something was very wrong, but both of them felt the same helplessness to act. Phelps was an experienced man with a wealth of knowledge. They had no alternative but to leave it in his hands, but both of them would have felt better if the good doctor had intervened sooner, sending Jesse to the hospital where specialists could examine him.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Mrs. Peterson. If he's no better, I'll ask to have him transferred to St. Andrew's hospital. We won't quit until we have this solved, I promise you," the doctor said solemnly to both of the young man's parents.

Chapter 1 The Twilight Zone

Tuesday, July 12, 2011 11am

"He's coming around, Doctor," the nurse announced as resident physician Daniel Scruton approached the third floor critical care nursing station at Coast Central Hospital. Nurse Dana Mannerly had paged the doctor after she had checked on their mystery patient and saw signs of him regaining consciousness.

Scruton nodded and immediately marched down the hallway towards room 313, bed 4. Perhaps now he could find out just what had happened to John Doe, the unnamed patient. He'd been brought in two days ago with no identification and no apparent wounds or bruises. Moreover, no one had come looking for him. Administration had contacted the police, but they had no missing person bulletin for anyone fitting the boy's description.

As the doctor gazed at him, he noted his patient again. He was clean cut, neat hair, no tattoos or piercings, and nothing in his bloodstream that indicated drugs or alcohol. Who was he? He'd been found unconscious, wearing only a pair of old fashioned, clean, flannel pyjamas: a not-so-typical John Doe. He was put in critical care because there was no other logical place for him. For now, John Doe was Dan Scruton's puzzle.

Scruton gave the youth a quick, general examination, checking eyes, respiration, blood pressure ... the usual. The boy seemed very fit from first observation, well fed with good muscle tone. No marks or bruises, no signs of needle usage. What had happened to him? He drew a chair up beside the bed and observed the young man. They'd done all the tests and could find nothing wrong with him other than some abnormal readings in the neuro-imaging. A second set of scans yesterday showed those abnormalities to be decreasing significantly. He was mystified at what had been going on with this boy, but perhaps when he regained consciousness he could enlighten the doctor as to what had happened to him.

It was an hour later that the patient woke completely and began searching around for someone to talk to. There were three other patients in the room and all of them were recovering from surgery. The young man didn't know that, of course. He simply wanted to know where he was and why.

His voice was a hoarse rattle. "Hello, is anybody there?"

He heard a groan from the bed next to him, but with a screen around all the other beds except his, he could see no one. He looked around the room and knew instinctively he was in a hospital, but where ... and why? He checked the immediate area around his bed and found a grey electrical cord with a button on the end of it attached to a handrail. He made a guess and pushed the button hoping he was right.

It was only a minute later that an older nurse hustled into his room, a smile on her face as she approached him.

"Ah ... awake at last. How are you feeling?" she asked, placing a cup of water with a bent straw on the nearby table.

Jesse attempted to reach for it, but the nurse had to pass it to him. He took a tentative sip. The young man took another sip of water, and then another while the nurse raised the head of the bed up to a more comfortable position.

"I'm okay, I guess. My headache's gone. Where am I?"

"You're in the critical care ward at Coast Central Hospital," she said, offering him another pillow. "You've been here almost ten days."

"Critical care? That sounds serious. What's wrong with me?"

"Your doctor will be along shortly and he can fill you in. In the meantime, what is your name?"

"Jesse Peterson."

"Where do you live?" she continued, clipboard in hand and pen at the ready.

"1205 Hemlock Avenue, West Vancouver. Why are you asking me these questions? Didn't my parents tell you all this?"

"You were brought in by ambulance. I understand you were found lying unconscious wearing only a pair of pyjamas. No one has come looking for you so far."

How long have I been here?" he asked again.

"This is day ten," she repeated.

Nurse Mannerly stepped back, wondering why she was getting this strange feeling about their mystery patient.

"We should phone your parents, Mister Peterson. What is your phone number?"

"Uhm, Walnut 3-1198. My mom should be home. Dad works during the day."

"That's an old fashioned phoned number," she smiled. "Let's see ... that's 923-1198, right?"

"I guess," he answered.

"I'll have administration call them right away and let them know where you are," she promised, heading out of the room and swiftly walking to the nursing station, approaching the head nurse.

"Tell Dr. Scruton that his mystery boy is awake and talking. I've got a phone number for his home and his name is Jesse Peterson. We need someone to call there and get some information and get him properly registered."

"Give me what you've got and I'll call Clarence in Admin and get him started," the head nurse said. "How is the boy?"

"Seems fine," Mannerly said with a shrug. "Awake, alert, a little disoriented of course. He has no recollection of how he got here."

Scruton cut short his rounds to head back to Room 313. His curiosity was too much to leave it until later.

"Good morning," he said as he glanced at the patient board at the end of the bed. "I see your name is Jesse Peterson. You've been a mystery to us until now. How are you feeling?"

"Pretty good. The headache's finally gone. Where are my parents? What's happened to them?" the boy asked, a look of fear mixed with bewilderment on his face.

"We're trying to contact them now," Scruton assured the young man. "I'm sure they'll be along shortly."

"What's this thing in my penis?"

"It's a catheter. It's how you can empty your bladder. You've been existing on IV feeding," the doctor said casually.

With that, Jesse relaxed back on the bed. "What day is this?"

"Tuesday, July 12th. What is the last thing you remember before waking this morning?"

"I ... I was sick. A headache that wouldn't go away. I couldn't eat, no energy ... just wanted to sleep."

"Were you in your own home at the time?"

"Yes ... in my bed ... downstairs in my room."

"You were found Sunday morning on a bus stop bench near Stanley Park wearing only your pyjamas, nothing else. No identification or any other things with you. Perhaps you were robbed, but why just wearing pyjamas?"

The boy closed his eyes. "I don't know. I don't remember any of that."

"Are you hungry? Do you have an appetite?" the doctor asked.

"Yeah ... I am hungry. Can I get something?"

"Do you have any symptoms of nausea?"

"No ... I feel ... normal, except for that thing," Jesse said, pointing to his groin area.

"I'll see what I can do. We may be a little late to catch lunch, but we'll find something for you. As far as I can tell, whatever was bothering you has passed. I'll have the duty nurse remove the IV and the catheter once we are sure you can handle regular food. We've done all the necessary tests and you show no sign of infection or injury. We'll keep an eye on you for a day or so before you're released."

"Okay. I'm sure my parents must be worried about me. I couldn't just disappear for ten days without them noticing."

"Yes ... I'm sure you're right," the doctor said thoughtfully. That fact was both surprising ... and troubling.

~*~

"Doctor Scruton, Admin wants to have a word with you about our mystery patient," the duty nurse said as he checked in at the main desk.

"Oh? Okay, I'll give them a call in a couple of minutes."

"Don't forget. They sounded quite concerned. I was talking to Jana Farley, so you should ask for her."

Scruton sighed, smiled at the woman, then picked up the desk phone.

"It's Dan Scruton, Jana. What's up with Jesse Peterson?"

"There is no Jesse Peterson," she answered immediately. "That is, not at the address and phone number he gave us. The phone number is listed for a Mrs. Callan, an eighty-something widow who lives in an apartment on the waterfront. The address he gave us is occupied by a Mr. and Mrs. Naziz Sharaz who've lived there for eight years. Neither Mrs. Callan nor the Sharazs have ever heard of a Jesse Peterson. Our mystery patient is still a mystery. I've contacted both the city and West Van police to see if there's a missing persons' bulletin on someone of that name, but nothing."

"Hmmm. Now what? I think we'd better contact Psychiatric Services and see if they can help us. He doesn't look or sound like he's off his meds, but you never know. As I recall, there was absolutely nothing on the tox screen to indicate drugs of any kind. He really is a puzzle."

"Okay, Doctor. I'll get hold of Psych and ask them to visit."

The doctor hung up the phone, shook his head in wonder, and continued on his rounds. Someone else could handle this problem now.

~*~

Doctor Evelina Mikeska walked into room 313 and immediately spotted her patient. The clean-cut young man was sitting up, reading a paperback, a look of complete confusion on his face.

"Hello," the doctor smiled as she approached him. "You must be Jesse. I'm Doctor Eve Mikeska."

"Hi. Have you heard from my parents?" he asked immediately.

"No ... not yet. Are you feeling well enough to get up?" she asked.

"Yeah. I was up to go to the bathroom a few minutes ago. Why haven't my parents called?"

"We're having a bit of trouble locating them. Let me get a wheelchair and we'll go have a talk in a private area."

"Has something bad happened to Mom and Dad?" he asked, now looking alarmed.

"Not that we know of. Let me get a wheelchair and we'll find someplace we can get some more information from you."

The doctor retrieved a wheelchair from the hallway and brought it to the young man's bedside.

"Sit here and I'll take you out of here," Dr. Mikeska said with an encouraging smile.

"I can walk, you know," the boy said.

"I know, but this is procedure ... for your safety. Come on, climb on," she smiled once more.

She was too good looking to argue with or ignore. He effortlessly got out of the bed and stood before sitting in the chair. There were no signs of dizziness or disorientation. He seems completely capable, the doctor thought.

She wheeled him toward a room near the end of the long hallway. They passed a number of ward rooms, all of which were occupied. She pushed the wheelchair into the last enclosure, hanging a Do Not Disturb sign on the outside of the door before closing it.

"There. Now we can talk without all of the other patients hearing our conversation. Let's start at the beginning," she said, pulling a small plastic object from her pocket. "This is a recorder and it will save me a lot of time writing things down. Please give me your full name," she requested in a calm, reassuring voice.

"Jesse Michael Peterson."

"Age?"

"Eighteen ... and a half."

"Height?"

"Six foot one."

"Weight?"

"About one eighty."

"Address?"

"1205 Hemlock Avenue, West Vancouver."

"Phone number?"

"Walnut 3-1198."

"Date of birth?"

"December 11, 1942," he answered calmly.

She looked at him carefully. "Are you sure about that?"

"Yes ... of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Jesse ... what is today's date?"

"I don't know ... July something. I've kind of lost track of time."

"Okay ... it's July 12th. Do you know what year?"

"Sure ... 1961. Why?"

Doctor Eve Mikeska leaned back in her chair and looked carefully at the youth. There wasn't a single sign of deceit. His gaze had been calm and unblinking. His answer had come quickly and in an even, unhurried tone. On the surface of it, it appeared he was telling the truth ... as he knew it.

"Jesse, let me show you something," she said, rising and stepping to a rack of magazines. She chose one and handed it to him.

"Do you recognize this magazine?"

"Sure ... it's Time," he answered quickly, not really looking at the periodical.

"Look at the date on the cover," she instructed.

He did so, and within seconds, his face paled dramatically, and a look of total shock replaced his former relaxed visage.

"This can't be. It ... it says ... it says it's 2011. That's not possible. Is this some kind of trick?"

She shook her head. "No, Jesse, it's no trick. It really is July 12th, 2011."

He was struck speechless. Bewildered, he couldn't even think of what to ask ... or what to believe. How was this possible? It wasn't, of course. This wasn't some science fiction movie, this must be some kind of dream. He must be hallucinating. Maybe he didn't understand her. He could feel the fear beginning to build inside him.

"What ... what did you say the year was?" he asked haltingly.

"It's two thousand and eleven, Jesse. Now, tell me again, when were you born?" she asked quietly.

She was serious ... that much was obvious to him. There wasn't a hint of a smile or anything about her behaviour that suggested otherwise. He stared at her, his mouth moving but little sound coming forth. Finally, almost so quietly that she couldn't hear him, "Nineteen Forty-Two."

"Jesse ... you and I both know that's not possible," she said, still maintaining her quiet calm demeanour. She was being patient with the boy. He was under stress now ... that much she could see. He looked both confused and ... perhaps ... frightened?

"What do you mean, not possible? Look at me. I'm Jesse Peterson and I was born in Toronto General Hospital on December 11, 1942. Is this some kind of test to see if I'm crazy?"

"No, Jesse. It's not a test. It really is twenty-eleven. You look to be eighteen, so being born in 1942 is not possible. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

He was silent, alternately looking around the room, the cover of the magazine, and the doctor.

"I can hear your words," he said at length, avoiding her eyes, still looking around the room. "I'm not lying, you know. How can I prove I'm not lying?" he asked, turning back to her.

Again, he was showing signs of shock, his face having lost colour, his eyes enlarged, but his expression was ... guileless. Doctor Eve Mikeska was stymied. Where to go from here? Perhaps more proof was needed to convince the boy.

"Jesse, let me turn on the television. You'll be able to see for yourself what I'm telling you."

coaster2
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