Mangled Memory, page 3
She scans the barcode on my ID bracelet after setting down the tray and I notice what I missed yesterday. Allergies: Penicillin, hazelnuts
“Go gently with the food. We can bring you more, but you’ve had an empty stomach for a while.” This is the same speech I heard at breakfast when they denied me coffee. I explained that half of my headache was probably my body needing its morning fix, but they didn’t care and blew right past my desperate request.
I look down at the clear, pale-yellow soup before me and the bold red gelatin. I didn’t have my tonsils out. And I’m not five.
“Hard to go hard on broth and collagen.” I’m sure my sarcasm and frustration shine through the mumblings and grumblings of this non-caffeinated woman who has half a mind to do something illegal for a decent sandwich.
“I understand. Things will be back to normal in the next few days.”
“You mean with my diet.” It’s not a question.
She looks uncomfortable. “Yes. The body is resilient, and you’re young and in great shape.”
“My resilient body needs coffee.”
“Tomorrow. I’ll make a note.” She smiles as she leaves.
“Ayla.” My dad’s voice is urgent. “Do not trust that man. Watch everything. Listen. You’re too smart to get suckered in. I’m only a phone call away if you hear anything or see anything that worries you.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I spoon the broth into my mouth. It’s bland, except for the salt. This isn’t heart patient soup. This is keep-your-blood-pressure-up soup. I wish there was any flavor to it besides chicken bouillon and salt.
I slide the spoon to the tray and drink from the bowl. It’s not good. I don’t like it, but I’m hungry, and if I leave anything, they’ll be stingier at dinner.
“How’s work?” I ask my dad when I set down the bowl and reach for the Jello.
He begins telling me about current challenges in the Denver commercial real estate market but gets tight lipped after tipping his head to the door.
It swooshes open and in saunters the man I’m wed to. The word husband seems too intimate for a man whose middle name I can’t even guess at.
And the bastard walks in with a paper cup from my favorite coffee place. It’s salt in a wound, and he’s flaunting it in my face. I clench my jaw and feel my blood pressure rise.
Maybe it’s the soup.
Certainly, it’s the fight this morning where he felt entitled to see me naked.
But, waltzing in here drinking a coffee when I’m however many days in without a cup is cruel.
I’m sure my face registers my anger.
“Seamus.” Christian nods curtly to my dad before rounding the bed to drop a kiss on my forehead. “Hey, Princess.” His soft murmur there vibrates across my body.
Grrr.
My dad stands, squeezes my hand, and heads to the door. He taps the jamb once he hits the threshold, his ring clanking against the metal frame, and turns back to me. “Remember what I said. I’ll be back soon.” He eyes the man at my side before lumbering through, his shoes squishing with every step of retreat.
“What did he say?” Christian’s suspicion is evident as he turns from watching my dad to eyeing me.
“Nothing much. We talked business a bit, and I complained about the food.”
“And you need to remember that conversation because it’s important?”
Shit. “Apparently.”
“Cut the shit, baby. That man couldn’t play poker to save his life, and thankfully, you’re not a great bluffer either. Your face is too expressive. Besides, you’ve got too much let it rip and let the cards fall where they may in you to want to. So, I’ll ask again.”
“He’s worried about me is all. And he knows the black hole that is my memory is irking the shit out of me. So he wants me to be smart. And the food sucks. I’m not lying.”
“I can’t fix the food, but I’m not above liquid contraband.” He sets the cup down on my tray. “Toasted marshmallow s’mores latte with cinnamon instead of graham cracker sprinkles.”
I grab the cup and bring it to my lips, taking one huge inhale before sipping. I moan as the rich flavor hits my tongue. When I open my eyes, Christian is assessing me.
“What?”
“Your eyes when you have your first sip of coffee are a step away from your eyes when I’m moving inside you. It’s been more than a week, and I needed to see it.”
“Oh.”
All my fire and all the anger I’ve held onto and I have the eloquence of a two-year-old. Oh. That’s what I came up with.
“I’m ready to take you home. They’re saying they want another day or two to monitor the swelling on your brain. The pressure there is normal today, and they don’t expect that to change, but we’re using more caution, not less. So go lightly on that coffee. I didn’t ask for half-caff, because I knew you’d revolt, but you need to be smart with your body and brain. They’ll never let you go if you’re not stable. And I don’t want them to if they’re not sure you’re good to be released.”
He squeezes my hand in his.
“They’re trying to kill me with their soup.”
“I’ll have a word. Do you want to tell me about therapy?”
I shake my head back and forth and take another sip of coffee. “Not really.”
He clenches his jaw but nods. “But you go back tomorrow? Last question, do you like the doctor or should we find another one?”
I shrug, not wanting to reveal much.
“We’ll find you another one. This is your brain, baby.” He leans over and kisses me below my ear, a gesture that is way too damn intimate for someone I do not know. “We’ll find someone who can help you recover what can be recovered and who can help you walk through the process in the meantime. In sickness and in health, Ayla. But we’ll fight for the health part, okay?”
Lather.
Rinse.
Repeat.
Two days pass with the same boring bullshit.
Wretched sleep full of strange dreams. Breakfast. Shower. Therapy. A visit or two by my family.
No phone. No tablet. No book. No anything.
And the forbidding man with my last name stands vigil at my bedside. He listens to everything. He must leave when I’m with the shrink, because he’s showered and in new clothes by lunch every day. He never leaves my side when family comes.
The light of his computer screen reflects onto his face throughout the night and his cell phone never seems to need a charge, though it’s always lighting up and taking his attention.
And I’m over this.
Over him.
Over lying flat on my back.
Over not having my own clothes or my own shampoo.
Over being grateful for a nap because at least there’s a reprieve from utter boredom.
“I’m done. Get the doctor. I’ve got to get out of here.”
“You sure?”
Why the fuck wouldn’t I be sure? It’s not like I’m going to trip and fall off another cliff face in my living room. Seriously, how clumsy am I? I need fresh air and to see the sun.
I need to go see my friend Jessi and get a blowout and maybe some layers as this scar heals and have a normal fucking conversation that doesn’t revolve around my brain or my vitals or what I can or cannot remember.
“Positive. Spring me, please. I’m begging you. And I need my phone.”
Christian nods, setting his laptop aside. He leaves the room, and I peek at his computer trying to see anything that looks familiar.
My dad is right. I can’t trust him, and information is power.
Except the computer is too far away, and nothing is familiar anyway.
When Christian returns, he has the attending in tow. How does he do that? How does he snap his fingers and get what he wants? And how can I do that too?
“Mrs. Barone.”
“Ayla, please.”
“Ayla.” She nods. “Everything looks good. We’re very pleased with how you’re healing. We’ll begin the discharge process, but you shouldn’t expect that to be quick.”
“Please expedite it. My wife is ready to go home.” The authority in Christian’s tone brooks no argument.
The doctor acknowledges him and continues to address me. “As I was saying, we will begin the discharge process, but I must impress upon you that if you feel off in any way, notice any changes in how you feel, or in your hearing or sight, you must return immediately. Nausea. Headaches—any headache other than what you feel right now—catalog that so you recognize it, okay?”
I agree.
“Anything other than this, you return. Do not hesitate. Do not question. The brain is fascinating, but we don’t want to risk anything when it comes to your health. So I’ll begin the process, but I must have your agreement that you will be honest in your assessment and be a willing partner in your wellbeing.”
“I will be.”
“Okay. Your surgeon and I both feel that therapy with a specialist in memory trauma should be a part of your protocol. Your husband has indicated that you’ve found another doctor to monitor this care and you have twice a week appointments set for the next several weeks.”
My head whips to Christian, and I instantly wish I’d been slower in my movements. He’s found a doctor… One I have not met and do not know and has already scheduled bi-weekly sessions. Who does he think he is?
I don’t give anything away to the doctor, but I might as well be being released from one prison into another. This is my body and my brain, and he’s making decisions about that without even discussing with me?
“Right,” I say, trying to keep the bite out of my words.
“Great. Let me see how quickly we can get you out of here.” As if I can’t comprehend the words or have no agency in my own life, she addresses Christian. “Lower sodium diet would be best.” I snicker since they’ve fed me crap the whole time I was here. “As many fresh veggies and fruits as you can. Lean proteins. Fish twice a week. Limit sugar and caffeine for a while. And walking would be great.”
“Thank you, doctor.”
I’m right fucking here, and they’re discussing my care without me.
4
secret dungeon
Ayla
“Where are we?”
The look of confusion on his face matches the confusion in my head.
“Home, Ayla. Where else?”
“But—” Shit. Shit. Shit.
I look at the mansion in front of me. I’ve never seen it before. I thought he was taking me to my house.
“What happened to my place?” My voice comes out quieter than I expect.
More than a week in the hospital, all the doctors and the poking and prodding, my family coming and going, and all the odd conversations and it didn’t dawn on me that being released to go home could mean what it does. Namely, I’m looking at an estate smack in the middle of Cherry Hills Village, no less, and going there with a man I’m assured has my best interest at heart. Nevertheless, he’s a man I don’t know and one I sure as hell don’t trust.
How can I? I’ve known him for less than a week. A week of lovey-dovey comments shadowed by what feel like threats. Not blatant ones, but subtle messages that are more control than tough love.
And now, I’m going home with him.
“It’s a corporate rental now.”
Of course it is. A nice high-rise apartment building in Cherry Creek North with an unobstructed view of the Rocky Mountains.
The garage door opens before us as his G-550 slides into the bay. My dread thrums as the door begins its descent. “I’m sorry. I keep forgetting that our shared life isn’t the same for you as it is for me.”
He exits the car and rounds the hood to open my door. I take his extended hand, but when his thumb rubs the diamond ring on my right hand and settles atop my hand, it settles there a hint too tightly. I don’t feel protected.
I feel trapped.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
“I’ll come back for your bag. Let’s get you settled.” If he said something before this, I lost it in the grip of his hand on mine and the panic swelling in my chest.
I nod mutely and might as well be being led to the gallows. Or, from the looks of this house, the guillotine. Gallows would be too common.
Christian is speaking, but the words die between the time they leave his mouth and hit my ears. My senses are trying to take in what’s before me. My house. My house. A house that doesn’t look like… well, a house that doesn’t look like me.
The great room is living and sitting rooms with an open kitchen and breakfast room. Exposed wood beams and heavy stonework gives this place an old-world feel. Dark gray floors and black doors juxtaposed with the cream stone is stunning, yet the heaviness is almost oppressive. It’s shadow on shadow, and with the low amber light, the contrast isn’t crisp, but mellow.
It’s rustic.
Just like the oversized fireplace that dominates the space.
And the heavy art seems uninspired.
But what do I know?
A laugh bursts from between my lips. It’s joined by the prickle of heat behind my eyes and the tickle inside my nose that can only mean tears.
The irony is not lost on me that I know…nothing. Or more accurately, remember nothing.
“The bathroom?” It’s all I can get out as Christian stops whatever he’s saying and points around the corner.
My ears drown out his questions or whatever sound comes at me, and I make it to the toilet before emptying the contents of my stomach into the bowl. I retch until all that’s left is acid and tears. I flush and turn to the heavy gilded mirror, to the woman I’ve always known, but who’s also an unknown traveler in my body.
My nose is pink and swollen. So are my lips. My eyes are red-rimmed, and my skin is pale. Not that that isn’t always the case, I’m Irish after all, but it’s blanched of all color and looks even worse with the red everywhere. I wash my hands and rinse out my mouth noting that the sink is polished until it shines, and the toilet was sparkling clean too.
I could laugh wondering about my housekeeping skills and what’s changed in the last few years, but I remember we have help. Seriously. That’s cringeworthy. I wonder if that’s this Fitz person. Or if our help has help. If so, I’m buying the latest photography equipment and having a field day with lenses. If our help has help, I can afford it.
I open the door only to be met with Christian pacing in the hallway outside. He abruptly stops and looks at me, pity playing on his features.
“I wanted to…” He scrubs a hand down his face and lifts his chin as his hand travels his neck. “I don’t know how to help. I—” His eyes level me. “Come on.” He extends a palm.
I walk around him instead of taking it. I don’t know his Ayla, but I’m not prepared to be herded.
I find an overstuffed leather chair and curl up into it as he sits on the ottoman in front of it. The leather is saddle brown, and I wonder what in this room or in this house I chose, what touches are the me he knew, because everything here looks… The only word for it is heavy. Heavy woods, rich leathers, dark stained hand-scraped plank floors. The creams don’t lighten; they accentuate.
“Did you hear me, Princess?”
I shake my head once, wishing I hadn’t. My brain feels too loose in my skull and shaking it swiftly sloshes it around. The vomiting loosened it; the shaking makes it worse. “No.” I use my words to avoid more pain, rubbing a hand against the stubble where they shaved my head, feeling gingerly along the ridge of scar that’s still tender.
He stands and does the hand scrubbing thing on his face, before silently walking to the kitchen. He returns with a cup of coffee, a scone, and a handful of grapes.
None of it makes my roiling stomach settle. Flat sprite and saltines sound good. Or water and toast. But coffee?
I break the scone apart and pop a little in my mouth, hoping the flour will soak up the acid. Maybe this is what the über rich do—scones instead of saltines. I’d laugh if the last time didn’t cause me to be in the very situation I’m in.
“How long have you lived here?”
He looks to the kitchen to my right, before settling his gaze back on me. “I bought this place three years ago and had some work done on it. I wasn’t in it four months or so when we met. You’ve been here with me since then, so we’ve lived here almost two years.”
I don’t miss the emphasis on the we even though I don’t like it.
“What did you have done to it?” I keep my questions generic and not about any kind of “we” as I have another bite of scone.
“I gutted it. The bones were good. But the floor plan was dated and didn’t fit my needs. The master had a small bathroom and no closet space. I wanted the gourmet kitchen. It took almost nine months to get to what you see now.” He stares at my coffee before looking back to me. “No to the coffee?”
I shake my head, gently this time to avoid the pain.
“May I?”
I nod, and he takes the cup, taking a sip, wincing only slightly as he drinks.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“You like less cream than I do, but more sugar. Give me a second?” He stands and moves into the corner of the kitchen.
Of course he’d know how I take my coffee.
I hear gurgling and hissing before he returns, finding his seat on the ottoman, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. He takes a sip and his features practically mellow. “I can handle the cream part, but the sugar isn’t my thing. Not in coffee anyway.”
That explains his body. I can’t be certain, because I haven’t seen him naked, but if his tailored shirts are anything to go by, the muscles beneath it are a work of art. Broad rounded shoulders, tapered waist, solid thighs.
When my eyes make it to his face again, the grin that plays at his lips is devilish. “Ayla Barone, did you just check me out?”
The heat that washes over me singes my face, and I drop my eyes. But I know better than to give this man an inch. “No. I was just admiring the furniture.”
