Damaged

by R. R. Banks

  "Don't tell him," I said as I made my way quickly back through the room and toward the bedroom. "Remember I’m the one who gave you bacon."

  I heard the little clicks of his nails on the floor as he followed me back into the bedroom, waiting just long enough for me to climb under the covers to hop up and curl into what was becoming his customary spot. I slipped out from under the covers and rushed across the floor to close the door most of the way so that just enough light came through that I could see the bed. Almost as soon as I got back into the bed and rested my head on the pillow, I heard the muffled sound of a door closing and realized that Micah had come back inside. I imagined him walking through the lodge with a towel wrapped around his hips and I bit my bottom lip, rolling over and burying my head in the pillow. I thought again about the reality of what I was going through. I was closing my eyes again, leaving myself alone with thoughts that were appearing in a mind that didn't really know what to do with them. I had no sense of context for the actions that I took, the things that I said, or even the food that I had chosen in the kitchen. I had no sense of self. But again, I couldn't determine if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Did this mean that I had lost myself or that I was being given a rare gift -- the opportunity to create something new? Micah had said that I would likely recover my memory sometime soon. Did that mean that I got to discover myself and choose the elements that I wanted to keep, to create a truer version, an expression of who I really was?

  My mind drifted away from my lack of memories and returned to Micah. I couldn't deny the attraction that I felt for him. It was powerful and intense, something so much more than I should feel after such a short time. But it felt so real. It was entirely unexpected, and yet it felt as though it had always been there.

  Thoughts of Micah were with me when I fell asleep and they were with me when I opened my eyes again in the morning. For a brief moment I lay still, orienting myself again as I gradually let my thoughts creep into the back of my mind to see if they would discover any memories there. There was still nothing before the moment that I awoke in the bedroom the day before, unless I counted the flickering familiarity that I saw in Micah's eyes. I glanced to the bottom of the bed to see Scout, but there was only the impression of his warm, furry body in the comforter. I had lost my bed companion. Out in the lodge I heard what sounded like a muffled voice and knew that Scout had gotten up to join Micah. I freshened myself up and walked out into the great room, following the sound of Micah's voice until I found him coming in from outside. He was talking to Scout in an enthusiastic tone, riling the dog up until he was jumping and spinning around at Micah's feet.

  Micah was wearing several layers of thick clothing, but my cheeks still burned with the memory of what I knew was underneath them, what I had seen the night before when he was showering. Snow coated his shoulders and hat, and he stomped his feet on the mat to shake off a layer from his boots. He hadn't seemed to notice me, but as he unwound the scarf from around his neck, he glanced up.

  "Hello," he said.

  "Good morning."

  "Did you sleep well?"

  "I did, thanks."

  "There you go. Something you remember."

  His tone was stiff and unyielding, and if I hadn't seen his fingers absently running over Scout's head while he said it, I likely would have thought that he was being an ass. Instead it seemed like it was another moment of humor, a touch of lightness coming through the cold, distant exterior. I wish I could understand what made him that way. He seemed so detached. There were moments when he was present, when he was right there with me and I felt like we were existing in a closed space only we inhabited. Within seconds, though, he changed, and I felt like I had been locked away from him. Even in those moments, though, I could sense something in him that was caring and protective. I found it intriguing, making him even more attractive.

  "Don't get your hopes up too much," I said. "That's it."

  "So, still Esmerelda?" he asked.

  It took me a few seconds to remember what he was talking about and I nodded, trying to maintain a straight face.

  "It seems so."

  "Well, then, Queen of the Gypsies, if that's the case then you probably already know that the weather outside has gotten even worse. It seemed to have calmed down a little last night, but then it picked back up again and is now pretty bad. You definitely won't be going anywhere today. It might be a while until we're able to get you down the mountain. I contacted the rangers and they said that the emergency services units have been slammed since the storm started and don't know when they're going to be able to get up here."

  I felt strangely upset by the revelation. He was trying to find a way to get me out of his house. The instant I allowed that thought to go through my mind, I wanted to chastise myself for being so ridiculous. Of course, this man was trying to find a way to get me down the mountain. I was a stranger who he had found crashed against a tree in a snowstorm. Helping me was his goal from the beginning, not keeping me. The voice in the back of my mind, though, said I was glad the rangers couldn't come. I wanted to spend more time with Micah. Being in the lodge with him, even in the moments when he felt closed up and cold, I felt safe in the lodge with him and the powerful pull was enough to make me want to explore more.

  "OK," I said.

  I had wanted to come up with something else, a quip or something at least moderately interesting, but that was all that I could manage. I wondered if I was always like this or if there was ever a time in my life when I had been articulate. This man managed to leave me stumbling over my words more times than not.

  "I just came in for a few minutes to grab another cup of coffee. The storm is worse than I had anticipated and there's some more work that I want to do around the property in case it keeps going. You're more than welcome to make yourself at home around here. Relax. Watch some TV. There's a library in the back if you want to read. I'll be in and out throughout the day and Scout will be here with you. He likes some snow, but this has gone beyond his threshold."

  I chuckled and patted the dog on the head as he looked up at me with an expression that almost looked like he fully understood what Micah had said and was confirming it. We walked into the kitchen and he went to work making coffee. The smell was rich and full, making me immediately wanted a cup.

  A discovery.

  "Can I have a cup?" I asked.

  "Sure." Micah gestured at one of the cabinets. "Grab a mug."

  I leaned my back against the counter and Micah did the same. We sipped our coffee in silence. I couldn't determine if it was a comfortable silence or if it was a silence that stemmed from neither of us knowing what to say. Maybe we didn't want to say anything. When he finished, Micah rinsed his mug and put it in the dishwasher with our dishes from the night before. He looked at me for a moment, then turned away and left the house. I took my last few sips of coffee and then followed his lead with the mug. I contemplated making something for breakfast, but the meal that I had eaten with Micah in the middle of the night still had me satisfied, so I decided that I would take Micah's invitation and make myself at home in the lodge. That meant doing some exploring.

  I roamed through the rooms that I had already visited the night before, taking my time to notice more of the beautiful, luxurious details. The home was pure masculinity but with a sophistication that only came from someone who not only had but was accustomed to money. Yet the way that he had talked about making his money in technology and software made me feel as though that wasn't always the case. He didn't strike me as someone who grew up with wealthy parents or the world sitting at his feet. He worked hard now to take care of his lodge and the land around it, and there was the sense about him that he had worked just as hard before, if in a different way.

  As I walked through a new portion of the house I began to notice the occasional decorative elements. Though luxurious, the lodge was rustic and minimal, the heavy furniture, throws, and rugs making up the majority of the accessories in the home. Every so
often, however, I noticed little touches that stood out against the stone and dark wood. Bronze wall sconces accentuated one hallway. One simple painting punctuated the expanse of a wall. A cut crystal bowl, empty on a table at the juncture of a corner, the most unusual and seemingly out of place detail. As I looked at them I wondered if these were really there because he had chosen them when designing his home, or if someone who he cared deeply for, maybe the mother he had mentioned only briefly, but who had obviously been extremely important to him, had chosen these for him and he left them there in their honor.

  The thought of curling up with a book sounded wonderful and I roamed through the house looking for the library. I found myself in a back hallway and I peered into the various rooms that I passed as I walked down it. All of them were open except for one. I turned the doorknob, curious about what could be in the room, but it was locked. I shook the doorknob.

  Why did people do that? Was there ever a time when shaking a locked door actually caused it to open?

  Feeling guilty for wanting to get into a room that Micah obviously wanted protected, I left the room and made my way down the rest of the hall and around the corner. As soon as I turned around the bend I found the open, arched doorway to the library and stepped through into a room that was richly appointed and overflowing with books displayed in tall cases and stacked on tables. I turned on the light to add to the wintery glow from outside and began to explore the titles of the books, searching for one that appealed to me. Part of me hoped that something in the titles would reach out to me and spark something, give me some sort of further insight into myself, but nothing looked familiar. I found an interesting title and took it over to one of the large chairs sitting beside a fireplace. I looked at the fireplace, wishing that it had a roaring fire to complete the ambiance. I was just giving up on that thought when I noticed a small switch on the side. I flipped it and the fireplace burst to life. The realization that Micah, the rugged outdoorsman who was currently out in a blizzard making sure that his lodge and property were protected from damage and prepared for further severe weather, had installed a gas fireplace in his library made me laugh. It was unexpected and seemingly out of character, but at the same time seemed to speak to the affluence that had crafted the rest of the lodge.

  Feeling a cozy boost from the warmth and glow of the fire, I wrapped myself in a champagne-colored chenille blanket and curled into the chair. Scout had been sauntering along beside me since Micah went outside and now stepped in front of the fireplace to settle down in the warmth for a nap. I opened the book in my lap and soon lost myself in the story that unfolded on the thick pages.

  "I see you found my deep, dark secret."

  I looked up and saw Micah standing in the doorway. Scout looked up at him as if he was contemplating getting up and going to Micah obediently, then let out a sigh and rested his head down again. Apparently, he had had enough of the winter weather and wasn't eager to even look like he was volunteering to go out into it again.

  "The library or the fireplace? Because if it's the library, you didn't conceal it very well."

  I still had the fluttering in my chest that came each time that I looked at him, but I was starting to feel more at ease and like I could talk to Micah.

  "I meant the fireplace."

  "It is rather shocking. I would think that all of your fireplaces would require you to chop down a tree or two."

  "Well, most of them do. And I try to use downed trees as much as I can rather than taking down new ones."

  "How environmentally aware of you."

  Micah made a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a snort and stepped further into the room.

  "I'm more aware of the possibility of a tree falling and hitting other trees and eventually knocking something over so that it crushes me. It's not like there's a lot of people up on the mountain to come to my rescue. And I love my dog and all, but Scout is no Lassie. He'd probably run for help, forget five minutes later, and end up trying to play with the squirrels."

  "Does he do that frequently?"

  "More often than you would probably like to think."

  I laughed, closing the book in my lap so that I could focus entirely on him. His eyes touched the book briefly.

  "Good book?" he asked.

  I looked at it and nodded.

  "It is." A thought came to my mind and I looked up at him again. "So... speaking of deep, dark secrets."

  Micah looked somewhat suspicious.

  "Yeah?"

  I hesitated. I didn't want him to think that I was prying or that I was overstepping my bounds, but the curiosity was getting the most of me.

  "When I was walking around the house, I noticed that there's a locked room on this hallway."

  "There is," he said.

  "Um...what is it?"

  As soon as I asked it, I wondered if the question was actually a good idea. What if I really didn't want to know what was behind that door? What if it was something devastating or horrifying? What if I had just done the exact thing that people yell at the vacant-minded women on true crime shows for doing and was about to get dragged into some sort of mountain retreat-meets-torture chamber? My breath had gotten more shallow and faster as my thoughts came faster and faster, quickly getting out of control.

  "Do you want to know?" he asked.

  I had expected that he would be more mysterious, even elusive about it, but he wasn't. I couldn't decide if that was reassuring or if it was just confirmation that this was going to go badly quickly. My eyes slid over to Scout. He was still sleeping. He wouldn't betray me, would he? A dog that sweet and calm couldn't possibly belong to a rabid serial killer, could he?

  The dark place shows up quickly when you're stranded in the middle of nowhere in the snow.

  "Do I?" I asked.

  There was a tremble in my voice that I wasn't proud of. Not that I had any context, but I would hope that I would have a few more survival instincts in me that would make me at least somewhat more courageous in this type of situation. He shrugged and started out of the room. I thought only briefly before furthering my somewhat disturbing lack of self-preservation by getting up and following Micah out of the library. I heard a deep, beleaguered sigh behind me and then the click of Scout's nails on the floor as he followed. I stepped out into the hallway and found Micah standing just outside the locked door, holding a key in his hand.

  "What do you think's in there?" he asked.

  "I really have no idea," I said.

  He stared at me for a few seconds and then turned toward the door.

  "Let's find out."

  Micah unlocked the door and stepped aside so that I could enter the room first. I felt him lean in just enough that he could hit the light switch to turn the light on in the room. As soon as I saw what was there, I felt ridiculous for my fear. I turned around and looked at him, opening my hands out to indicate the room around me.

  "Really?" I asked. "This is it? Why would you keep all of this locked up so mysteriously?"

  Micah shrugged and stepped further into the room, looking around as I had.

  "These are the most important things to me," he said. "Other than Scout, of course."

  I looked down and saw that the dog was staring at Micah, and if I hadn't known any better I would have thought that he did seem to look somewhat disdainful, as though his beloved human had just implied that he didn't matter.

  The dog has become another person. Cabin fever is officially kicking in.

  "What is it, exactly?" I asked.

  I turned around in the center of the room slowly, looking at the shelves, shadow boxes, and displays that filled the space.

  "It's my memorabilia room," he told me. "I used to play football."

  There was a hint of nostalgia and a soft veil of sadness in his voice and I knew that there was more to this room than just a place where he could keep mementos of his glory days or displays of his devotion to a particular team. I walked around the room slowly, taking in all that was displaye
d. There were items that I might expect to be in the man cave of a sports fan. I saw shelves filled with books about the sport, replicas of awards, and photographs of Micah with players. There were other items, however, that seemed far more exclusive. I noticed footballs on stands that were autographed by multiple people, framed jerseys that held not just the name of the players who had worn them but stains and hints of damage that indicated that these had been worn during games, and other items that I couldn't imagine would be accessible to anyone other than the extremely wealthy. I couldn't understand why these things would matter so much to Micah, especially so much to create the emotion that I had heard in his voice.

  The more that I looked, however, the more that I began to notice the items in the room that related directly to Micah. I noticed a display case that held a jersey from a college team as well as a variety of awards and recognitions. A pair of well-worn cleats sat on the bottom with a black scrapbook.

  "Did you play all through your college years?" I asked.

  Micah shook his head.

  "No."

  He didn't offer any more and I continued through the room. As I moved deeper into the room it seemed that I was going back through the years of Micah's life. I left his college career and found myself standing in front of two sets of shelves hanging on the wall that contained what looked almost like a shrine to the years that Micah had played football in high school.

  "This is impressive," I said, amazed by the sheer volume of items that were crowded onto the display.

  A framed jersey with Micah's last name emblazoned on the back was on the wall in between the two sets of shelves and the displays that bordered it contained everything from rows of trophies to ticket stubs. I saw framed newspaper clippings, several scrapbooks, score sheets, and another football positioned on a claw-shaped display.