Page 1 of Accidentally Mine

Brent

T hey were all there.

Men in slick tuxedos. Women in sparkling dresses. All preening for the press.

And me.

Why me? Oh, that’s right. Because I was the man of the hour.

But unlike all the rest of them, I was looking for the nearest exit.

“Relax, it’s just one night,” my sister, Claudia, said as she dusted off the sleeve of my tux before giving me a parting air kiss, her thick brown hair framing her face. “Let them adore you. They want to. And you deserve the recognition.”

I adjusted my stiff black jacket and bow tie as she disappeared into the crowd, thinking that there had to be a way to save the world without my peers being compelled to pour praise all over me. Couldn’t I just do good, anonymously?

Apparently not.

Thus, this event, on the rooftop of the Revere Hotel overlooking Boston’s Back Bay. A gorgeous venue overlooking the lights of the harbor. Nice, warm early May Saturday night. The best city in the world. Fantastic people.

They sipped expensive champagne. I’d rather have a beer. They nibbled on fancy finger foods. I’d rather have a burger. They were comfortable in stiff monkey suits. I’d rather be at home, in sweats, on the couch, watching the Bruins. Or out on the course, with my bow.

To me, it was an unendurable event. Honoring the Boston Children’s Hospital’s Humanitarian of the Year, which was a worthwhile endeavor, for sure.

If that Humanitarian of the Year hadn’t been me.

I accepted congratulations from the hundredth person that night, sipped tasteless champagne from a crystal flute, and tugged on the collar of my tux.

My collar size was more like a seventeen than a sixteen and a half.

Another reminder note I needed to tap into my Memory Key, so I wouldn’t have to suffocate next time I was dragged to one of these things.

The Key was my baby. Technology I’d invented and had loaded on my phone, technology that organized my schedule, held my reminders, and basically saved my ass as a businessman. I had my neck size and about a dozen more things I needed to log into my Key, but now was not the time.

Which was a problem.

If I didn’t enter them now, by the end of the night, those details I wanted to note could possibly go the way of about a million other thoughts I’d had in the past two years…

straight into the big black void of my head, never to be recovered.

Thus, the Key, my little lifesaver. I was constantly thumbing notes into the thing. It had saved me countless times.

That was the reality of suffering from a traumatic brain injury. Though the forgetfulness had improved dramatically over time, I was still ultra careful to log things because I never knew which detail would disappear, or when. Like now.

An elderly man leaned over to me, a big smile on his face. “Great event. So worthwhile. And so good to have you be a part of it.”

He seemed vaguely familiar, and I felt sure I’d been introduced to him.

Earlier this evening? I wasn’t sure. I had the feeling he was someone important.

The effortless way he wore his tux like a second skin told me as much.

I couldn’t for the life of me remember his name.

I wasn’t this bad, usually. But I’d been introduced to no fewer than two-hundred people tonight. Even without a TBI, I’d be struggling.

Perhaps.

When I started Key Technologies, I had a lot of balls in the air, and I juggled each one of them. Prided myself on having a steel trap on my top floor—never forgetting a name, face, event. Before the accident, I got off on events like this. Worked the room. Charmed them all.

Now, I felt like a bull in a china shop.

“I’ll see you at the hospital on the twenty-second?” the man said in a smooth voice.

I frowned. The twenty-second? “The hospital?”

“Yes.” He studied me, eyebrow raised like he may have thought I was playing a joke on him. “Yes…you know. To discuss your advancements with the board, correct?”

Disjointed pieces of information slowly solidified in my head, like scattered jigsaw pieces finding a home. Victor Morgan. Head of Neurology at the Boston’s Children Hospital. The man who’d nominated me for this award. Right.

“Ah. Yes. Of course,” I said, several beats too late. “Looking forward to it.”

He let out what sounded like a sigh of disappointment.

I sensed what he was thinking. That it’d slipped my mind because it didn’t matter to me, which was the furthest thing from the truth.

But he couldn’t know that. In fact, the TBI was something I didn’t share with most of my peers, not even the ones with medical experience.

He nodded and walked away, probably insulted. Fantastic.

My tie was choking me. I pulled on it as a woman with red hair grabbed my elbow and started chatting my ear off, like we were old friends. I’d been introduced to her too. I remembered the pink dress that flashed her cleavage, but nothing else.

“Are you going too?” she asked.

Big surprise, I didn’t know what she was talking about. I shrugged noncommittally. “Possibly.” Great. Leave it to me to come off as the most indecisive CEO in the entire city. I needed to bail. “Excuse me.”

I moved past her, and a tall blonde woman tackled me from the other side, licking her lips and clinging to my arm for dear life as she told me how wonderful I was. “You’re really a star,” she gushed. “I’m proud to know you.”

My head spun. “Thank you. Excuse me.”

“Don’t you remember me?” she asked, her forehead furrowed.

I looked her over. I had no idea. Investor? One-night stand? My mind swam. “I’m sorry. I attend many events, and—”

“Erica Hawley,” she snapped. Another name that carried absolutely no weight and drew another blank stare from me. “I’m from the Globe . I did an article on your latest patent for the Health and Fitness Section two weeks ago?”

“Ah. Yes.” I thunked my forehead with my palm, giving her my most charming smile as I desperately tried to remember the article. “Thank you. Very nice job.”

She rolled her eyes, clearly disappointed. “Did you even read it?”

Before I could answer with what probably would’ve been a lie, she turned on her high heels and stomped away.

My head hurt from the strain of this night.

It was worse during stressful situations, and galas like this qualified.

Which was just one of the reasons I couldn’t stand them.

I could usually remember major past events.

I had the most trouble with people. And ideas.

Concepts and thoughts would strike me and sometimes be forgotten a second later.

Not a great thing to happen to a man who had built his business on his ideas.

Events were a big no, because my short-term memory was liable to short out at any time. I was forever wandering into a room, only to wonder what the fuck I’d come there for a second later.

Other than the memory thing, there were the headaches.

The light sensitivity. The insomnia. Occasional seizures.

The list went on and on. After two and a half years, the symptoms had improved and were still improving, but I had no idea if I would ever recover fully.

The doctors said it could take several years, or even longer.

I might never recover completely. The brain was a funny thing, and brain injuries were like snowflakes—no one was like another, making it impossible to tell how or if I’d recover.

I’d gone into engineering because I liked the exact science of it, and that precision was paramount.

But with a TBI, there was no exact science, ever.

I fiddled with my bow tie, trying to loosen it a fraction. Fuck. There was something about my shirt I’d wanted to remember, wasn’t there?

On cue, my throat closed.

The memory came hurling back. Right. Too tight. Seventeen, not sixteen and a half.

I checked my watch. Only three more hours of this bullshit, and I was home free.

Victor Morgan—or was it Morton?—approached the podium at the front of the room. The chatter in the room grew quiet.

Behind the lectern, smiling like he lived for the microphone, he said, “We are all here to recognize a wonderful person whom you’ve all had the pleasure of getting to know.

The death of his mother from brain cancer and father from stroke before he graduated from MIT led our Humanitarian of the Year to devote much of his life to patenting a new type of screening technology that has been revolutionizing hospitals across the country.

This unique technology eliminates many of the problems associated with traditional CT or MRI scans, and provides a clearer image that can help in detecting certain traumatic brain disorders earlier than ever before.

This technology is saving countless lives and is the reason we’ve named Brent McKee, the founder of Key Technologies, as our Humanitarian of the Year. ”

I set my glass down on the nearest table, smiling wryly. I’d dedicated my life to studying brain injury, and then I went and got one myself. How’s that for irony at its finest?

He motioned me to join him, and the crowd burst into applause.

I tried to hide the jolt. That was another thing.

Sound sensitivity, which in the beginning meant even some mild sounds had me climbing the walls.

Now, only blasts of noise bothered me. Doing my best to keep my shit together, I straightened my jacket, strode to the front of the room and climbed onto the podium.

Any ordinary CEO would now give a rousing acceptance speech and wax poetic on the many trials and tribulations that had gotten him to this point.

Yes, I’d had many of those. But stress had been known to trigger a seizure, and the last thing I wanted was to collapse on-stage in a puddle of my own drool, then thrash around for an encore.

I nodded at Victor as I took the crystal obelisk from his hand and posed for pictures. Blinking away the spots the flashbulbs left in my vision, I took my place at the lectern and raised the microphone to my mouth.