“Stop.” I shake my head. “What are you saying, Logan?”
“The accident that killed your parents, nearly killed you and stole your memory. I looked at the reports again. Compared them to other similar reports I was able to get my hands on. The reports are . . . vague at best. Inconsistent. Basic info on your parents, the VIN of your parents’ car. But there’s nothing on the other driver. No witnesses, no VIN, no tickets, nothing. The report says it was a crash, but not into what. Another car? A building? It doesn’t say. It’s all vague. So much so as to be useless.”
“Make your claim, Logan.”
“What if it wasn’t an accident? What if he wanted you, because he had a predilection for young girls, so he did what he had to do to make you his?”
“Logan—”
“It fits, Is. All the girls, every single one, they were all sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. Young, beautiful, and desperate. And what could be more desperate than a girl with not only no parents, but no identity?”
“Why would he need to fake an accident?”
“The accident wasn’t faked, Isabel. It was real. Your parents died.”
“Arranged, then. But how could he be sure I wouldn’t die? Memory loss . . . is not well understood, Logan. It is impossible for him to have been able to arrange a car accident in such a way that he could be sure I’d lose my memory. That’s crazy, Logan. And just impossible.”
“True. But . . . there’s something there, Is. Something he’s not telling you, or lying about.”
Crazy. Impossible.
But . . . the flashes of memory I’ve had . . . they seem to be hinting that I knew Jakob before my memory loss. But then, he told me I lost my memory suddenly, after surgery.
The lies you’ve told don’t match with the accidental truths you’ve spilled. 2006? 2009? Sixteen? Eighteen? Car accident? Mugging?
Isabel . . .
The whisper on your lips as you come.
Your forehead against mine.
* * *
—You were so frail, so slight. So young. Only sixteen, I think. Or thereabouts. Sixteen, seventeen. A girl, still. But so beautiful already. Dying, terrified, lost, and your eyes, when I set you down on the stretcher when we got to the ER, you looked up at me with those great big black eyes of yours and I just . . . I couldn’t walk away—
* * *
Isabel?” Logan’s voice. Far away. Warm, concerned. Loving.
Far away. Faint.
I’m dizzy.
Something sparks, in my skull. Deep in my chest. A vision. A thought.
Life, relived:
* * *
I am alone. I should be in school, but I’m not. It is warm, a beautiful, sunny day. I am in my favorite dress. I’ve curled my hair, stolen Mama’s makeup and a pair of earrings. I feel beautiful. Excited, but scared. Down the stairs to the subway, onto the train. Only a few stops, and then I get off. Ascend to the street, cross the intersection. There, the café. OUR café. He’s here every morning, so I know he’ll be here now.
I hurry, because I am excited.
There, I see him. God, so handsome. So tall, such broad shoulders. He’s sitting at a table, sipping espresso. At ease, powerful, in command of his surroundings. He looks up . . . he sees me! My heart pitter-patters. I blush, trip a step. He stands as I approach, and I breeze past the hostess, through the doors and out onto the patio. Into his arms.
He grabs my shoulders and touches his chin to the top of my head. I have an instant, a glorious instant, where I’m pressed up to him, engulfed by him. But only briefly, and then he lets go, steps back.
“Caleb!” I breathe his name.
“Hey, gorgeous. How are you?” Oh, his English is so flawless. I am jealous. You can barely hear his accent.
“I am well, Caleb. How are you?” Ugh. I sound so SPANISH. Not American at all.
“You should be in school, shouldn’t you?” He says it with a teasing grin.
“I had to see you.” I say this in Spanish. I can’t help it; if I don’t consciously think about it, Spanish comes out.
“English, Isabel.”
I think it through. Make sure it is correct. “I am very well, Caleb. How are you?”
“That wasn’t the question, Isabel.” Another teasing grin, as we sit down.
“Brute. Don’t be mean to me.” More Spanish.
“Isabel. ENGLISH.” This is a scold, very serious.
I sigh again. “I wanted to very badly see you. School is dull. It is for children, and I am not a children.”
“Not a CHILD,” he corrects.
“Yes, that. Whatever.”
“If you want to sound American, you have to get it right.” He flags the waitress, indicates another espresso.
“I know. But it is hard.” I sound petulant, like a child. I am irritated with myself. “What are we going to do today, Caleb?”
He sips his espresso, eyeing me over the rim of the little cup. “You are going back to school. I have work.”
“Caleb. Please. I came all this way to see you. Spend time with me.” This is in Spanish.
He doesn’t correct me, responds in his perfect American English. “We’ve talked about this, Isabel. That’s not possible. You shouldn’t be here. We can only be friends.”
“But WHY?” Again, I sound so childish.
“Because you are only sixteen. Too young.”
This makes me so angry. “I am not a CHILD!” I say it in English, for emphasis. “I know what I want.”
“There’s more to it than that.” But his eyes, oh, those eyes.
They WANT me. I know what desire looks like. The boys at school, those little sniveling brats, they look at me the same way. But they wouldn’t know what to do with me if they had me. Caleb would know.
“Isabel. I’m not going anywhere.” He leans forward, takes my hands in his. Smiles beautifully at me. “When you graduate and turn eighteen, we can talk about this. But not until then.”
“I hate you.” I stand up, yanking my hands away.
“Isabel, don’t be—”
“Childish? I can’t help it, can I? Since I’m just a child.” I storm away, stomping my feet.
Feeling rejected. Feeling stupid. I put on makeup for him. I put on earrings for him. I wore my favorite blue dress for him. I looked in the mirror before I came, and I know I look much older than sixteen. Eighteen, at least. With my hair done right and a little makeup, everyone thinks I’m far older than I am. But not Caleb.
I can’t help but steal a backward glance at Caleb. He’s reading a newspaper now. Sipping espresso. Not a care in the world, as if he didn’t just break my heart.
I wait for him to look up at me, but he doesn’t.
I walk back home with tears blurring my vision. I scrub off my makeup, change into blue jeans, tie my hair back. Catch a train to school, and pretend nothing is wrong. As if I were just late for school, overslept, perhaps. Not heartbroken.
* * *
I feel myself falling. Hit the floor, but I don’t feel the pain.
Only the memory. Clear as crystal. Each emotion, what I was thinking. The way he looked. The openness of his expression, not the mask.
The dress, the blue dress.
I wore the blue dress for him.
For Caleb.
FOUR
Beep—beep—beep . . .
For a few moments, time is distorted. Time folds back on itself.
For a moment, I am a nameless young woman lying in a hospital bed with no recollection of myself, my past, anything. I am nothing. No one.
But then I open my eyes, and everything floods through me. Caleb . . . Jakob. Logan.
The memory. My first full, clear, complete memory from before the accident.
You knew me, Caleb. You’ve known me this whole time. You let me believe I w
as nameless. But you knew? You KNEW?
I think I pass out again, because I feel myself waking up once more.
And this time, I am not alone.
“Miss de la Vega.” Dr. Kalawat. “How are you feeling?”
I twist my head, see him standing beside my bed, reading a chart. “What happened?”
“You fainted, Miss de la Vega. You took a pretty nasty tumble, I’m afraid. Bumped your head rather badly, but nothing to worry about. Not even a concussion.”
Casters rattle, and Dr. Kalawat is pressing a hand to my head, my cheek, feeling my pulse. Checking the dilation and focus of my eyes. I notice a round Band-Aid on my left arm, near my elbow.
“What’s this?” I ask, pointing to it.
Dr. Kalawat glances. “Oh. We did a blood test.”
I frown. “Why?”
Dr. Kalawat sets down the chart, crosses one knee over the other. “Mr. Ryder tells me you vomited, not long after we spoke.”
“Yes. I was feeling queasy, after I saw you. It hit suddenly, and then passed. Why?”
“Might I ask you a rather personal question, Miss de la Vega?” This is rhetorical, as Dr. Kalawat continues without pausing to allow me an answer. “When was your last cycle, can you please tell me?”
I frown. “Um. My life has been rather chaotic lately, so—” Something cold and sharp hits me, flows through me. “Dr. Kalawat . . . what are you saying?”
A smile at me, kind, gentle. “I had thought you might be pregnant, but the test came back negative. Better to be sure, I think. Yes?”
“So I’m not?”
Dr. Kalawat tips his head side to side. “Well, I am not ruling it out. It may simply be too early to tell. If you are late to get your next cycle, or it doesn’t come at all, then I would recommend taking a test, either at home or in an office.” With sure, deft fingers, the doctor removes the monitor leads. “You may go. So far as I am able to determine at this time, you are perfectly healthy.”
I get out of the bed. “Thank you, Doctor.”
Another of those smiles. “It is my pleasure.”
The door shuts with a soft click, and I am alone.
Pregnant? Please, no. No. There is no way.
But . . . my last cycle . . . I have to think hard. Before Logan gave me my name. Middle of the month, as it has always been, since my first period at twelve years old.
And today . . . what day is today? What is the date? I cannot remember. Am I late?
I stumble out of the room, to the nearest nurses’ station. “Excuse me. What is the date?”
The nurse doesn’t look up. “Thursday, August eleventh.”
Not late, then. It usually comes middle of the second week of the month.
The relief is not as all-pervading as I would wish. Not as complete.
I find Logan’s room. He is typing in his phone once again when I walk in. “Isabel! Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Just bumped my head, that’s all.”
“You scared the shit out of me, Is. You just . . . fainted.”
I perch on the edge of his bed. “There is a lot going on.”
“Isabel.” He touches my chin. “Don’t hold out on me.”
I sigh. “I remembered something. From before.”
He lights up. “You did? What?”
“I knew Jakob. Or . . . Caleb. Whatever. I knew him. Before. I was in love with him, I think. I don’t know how we met, just that I skipped school to go see him at a café somewhere. I wanted us to be together, but he—he turned me down, because I was only sixteen.”
A long silence. “Holy shit.”
“Yes. The implications are worrisome.”
“I can see why you passed out.” He tangles our fingers together. “He’s been lying to you all this time, then.”
“Yes. For a very long time, it would seem. He . . . he let me believe—he let me—” I can’t finish it. I shake my head. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t think about it. I’ll have a panic attack.”
He pulls me against his chest. His heart thumps reassuringly under my ear. “Don’t. We can talk it through later. Dr. Kalawat said I can go home tomorrow. Just give it some time, okay? It’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. I’ll be okay. Everything’s going to be fine.”
Will it, though?
You are still out there. You haven’t let me go. I don’t think you can. And until you tell me the truth, I do not know if I can let you go either. If I am capable of just walking away without knowing the truth.
But will you ever tell me the truth? Can you? Are you capable of the truth?
I remember the look you gave me, when I said your name—when I said “Caleb” instead of “Jakob.” If I had said the other name, what might have happened? What would you have said? Would you have stayed? Held me? Kissed me? Made love to me again?
Would I have wanted that? Would it have . . . changed things, somehow? I don’t know. I don’t know.
I feel sick all over again, because I know I have to tell Logan what happened. Or some of it, at least.
But not yet.
Not while he’s still healing.
* * *
I cannot drive. Logan calls a car service when he is discharged, five days after the surgery. Walk beside his wheelchair as the nurse wheels him out. Hold his hand as he stands up. Lean into him, duck under his arm and press my cheek to his chest. Walk with him to the black sedan. He reaches for the roof, for balance. Misses.
“My depth perception is completely fucked,” he grumbles under his breath. “Gonna take some adjusting.” I slide my hand underneath his, guide his palm to the roof of the car, but he jerks his hand away. “Don’t need fucking help.”
I drop my hand and step back, stung by his outburst. “I’m sorry, Logan. I didn’t mean—”
He leans against the door frame of the car, scrubs his hands through his hair, groaning. “No, Isabel, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I’m just—” He shakes his head, shrugs. “It’s a lot to deal with.”
“I get it,” I say. “It’s fine.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not fine. It’s not fair for me to lash out at you. I’m just not used to needing help.”
“And I’ll be here to help you. Whatever you need.” I offer him a smile, lean into him, wrap my arms around him.
He palms my back, plants a brief kiss to my lips, and then swings himself into the car gingerly, slowly. Slides across so I can get in. It is hard to look at him. Hard to see him thus, the pressure bandage wrapped around his head. Wounded. Vulnerable. Unsteady on his feet. Reaching for something and missing. Logan has always been so capable, so unflappable. But now he needs me, and I’ll be there for him, as he has for me.
The drive to his brownstone is long and quiet. Serene. He holds my hand, stares out the window.
The driver turns onto Logan’s street, and that’s when Logan looks at me, a soft smile on his face. “I don’t blame you,” he says. “I hope you understand that.”
“Well, I do. There’s no one else to blame, Logan. Aside from Caleb, that is.”
“Don’t.”
“But Logan, if it weren’t for me—”
“Stop.” It’s an order. Quiet but sharp. “I knew going in that Caleb—Jakob, whatever the fuck his name is—I knew going in that he’s dangerous. I knew you were tangled up with him. I knew I was taking a risk letting myself get close to you. I took that risk eyes open, so this is on me. He’s not a man who forgives, nor does he forget, and he certainly doesn’t let go of what he considers his. So, this is on me. Okay?”
“You cannot just order me to not feel guilty and expect me to just . . . obey, Logan. I don’t work that way.” I shake my head. “And no, this isn’t on you, or me, really. It’s on Caleb. He shot you, intending to kill you. There’s no excuse for that.” I feel bile in my throat at the
thought of what I did with Caleb, knowing all the while what he’d done.
“I know that. I just mean I understood the risk I was running dealing with Caleb. I’m not blaming myself, just saying, I can’t say I didn’t know.”
“That’s a meaningless distinction, Logan.”
“Is it, though?” Logan questions. “I lost my eye. I want to be—I am—angry. I want fucking revenge, Isabel. I want to hunt that bastard down and gouge his goddamned eyes out. Now he’s not only cost me five years in prison, but my eye, and nearly my life.”
“That’s totally understandable, Logan—” I start.
But he interrupts me. “I had five years in prison to think about revenge. I had almost a week on my back in the hospital to think about it again. Where is revenge going to get me? I hunt him down and kill him, or whatever. What does that make me? I’ve seen enough death in my life. Don’t forget, I’m a combat veteran. I’ve killed people. I know what that shit feels like, and I have no desire whatsoever to feel that again. Not even a piece of shit like Caleb, not even after everything he’s done to me. Do I forgive him? No. He better hope I never lay eyes on him again.”
It strikes me that Logan’s outburst is only tangentially connected to what we were talking about. It seems like there’s a lot going on under the surface, when it comes to Logan.
The driver halts precisely in front of Logan’s address, puts the vehicle into park, gets out, opens Logan’s door. He’s stubborn, so he’s out before I can hop out and run around. He doesn’t want to need my help. But he does. He has a hard time getting the key into the lock, but I let him do it. He won’t adjust if he doesn’t try, right? I hate watching him fumble, though.
We’re in, hitting lights, and Logan is working on the alarm. I move past him, to let out Cocoa, his bear-sized chocolate lab. I notice something, though. Tufts of cotton, drifting across the hardwood floor. A scrap of gray fabric, lying partway out of the hallway.
“Logan?”
“Yeah, babe.”
“Is there anyone who would have checked on Cocoa?”
“I e-mailed Beth and asked her to check in. Why?” He moves to stand beside me. Another ball of wadded cotton bounces across the floor like a tumbleweed. “Oh. Shit. She must’ve gotten out.”
Exiled (A Madame X Novel) Page 4
