As soon as I hung up with Luca, I started looking for flights. If I left now, I’d be there before midnight. She was flying up with Steve, Caleb’s stepfather, in the morning. I wanted to be there first. I needed to look into his eyes and make him remember me. My father strolled into my office, a stack of papers in his hands. My mouse hovered over the purchase button. He was forever needing me to sign things.
“What are you doing?” He looked at me over the rim of his glasses.
“Caleb’s been in an accident,” I said. “He has a concussion, and he doesn’t know who he is.”
“You can’t leave,” he said matter-of-factly. “We’re in the middle of our trial run. I need you here.”
He dropped the papers on my desk and strode toward the door. I blinked at his back, unclear if he’d heard me.
“Daddy?”
He paused in the door, his back still to me. This was how most of our relationship was — me talking to his back, or his bent head, or his newspaper.
“Caleb needs me, I’m going.” I clicked purchase on the ticket and stood up to gather my things.
I didn’t look at him as I walked to the door, where he was most definitely frozen in place, glaring at me.
“Johanna — ”
“Don’t call me that. My name is Leah.”
I pushed past him, the force of my body knocking him into the doorframe. I looked braver than I felt — I was good at that. Did I just defy my father — the man whose love I was forever trying to win, earn … deserve? It took every bit of métier I possessed not to turn around and assess his anger. I knew that if I looked at him I would go running back, scrounging for the crumbs of his affection like a dog. He was furious … boiling. Walk, walk, walk — I told myself. Caleb needed me. He was the good that I owned, and I was not going to let him forget me. What did this job matter? What did my father matter? I needed Caleb more than both of them.
I drove home and threw things into an overnight bag. By the time I reached the airport, I was shaking. It was all a blur from there — going through security, finding my gate. When I reached the gate, there were still thirty minutes until the flight could board. I stood as close to the ticketing agent as possible. The marquee above her desk read Scranton, but it might as well have said Caleb. When the first boarding call was announced, I was the first one to hand her my ticket. Collapsing into my seat, I pressed my fingertips to my eyes to hold back the tears. I distracted myself by pulling out my iPhone and Googling amnesia. I was reading through the different types when the flight attendant told me I had to turn off my phone. I hated that. My boyfriend had amnesia, my father was going to disown me as soon as I got home, and the blue eye shadow wearing biotch was worried about my cell phone taking out a plane. I stowed my phone and flicked my nails over the pad of my thumb, one by one — starting with the pinkie and working my way across. I did that for the duration of the flight.
When it was finally time to land, I could barely keep from standing up and rushing to the front of the plane. I thought of all the things that could go wrong. Luca had mentioned on the phone that Caleb’s memory loss was classified as retrograde amnesia — meaning he had lost the ability to recall anything that happened before the accident. How could someone just … forget everything about their life? I didn’t believe it. There was no way he could forget me. We were together every day … he loved me. That was the absolute worst thing about love; no matter how hard you tried, you could never forget the person who had your heart. Until Caleb, I didn’t know what that meant. I was queen of date ‘em and ditch ‘em.
The line moved forward and I trotted out of the terminal and to the car rental kiosk. Thirty minutes later, I was speeding toward the hospital in a Ford Focus, the heat turned all the way up and my right thumb flicking, flicking, flicking at my nails. It was snowing outside. All I’d brought was a light jacket and a couple light sweaters. I was going to freeze.
The walk up to his hospital room was the longest I’d ever taken. My chest hurt as I worried if he’d remember me or not. His doctor — an Indian man with a kind face — met me in the hallway.
“There was some bleeding to his brain that we managed to get under control. He is in stable condition, but he is very confused. Don’t be upset if he doesn’t know who you are.”
“But, what caused it? Thousands of people get concussions and don’t lose their memories,” I said.
“There’s never a single causal explanation for these things. All you can do is be patient and give him the support that he needs. With this type of memory loss, it usually takes time, but their memories return.”
I looked fearfully toward his door. This was really happening. I was going to walk through that door, and the only man I’d ever allowed myself to love would not recognize me.
“Can I see him?”
The doctor nodded. “Give him space. To him, this will be the first time he’s meeting you. If you want to hug him, ask permission first.”
I swallowed the fist in my throat. Thanking the doctor, I knocked lightly on his door.
I heard him say, “Come in.”
The first thing I saw when I walked in was the pretty nurse who was checking his IV line. She was flirting with him. My initial response was to walk directly up to Caleb and to kiss him. My territory. Instead, I stood furtively by the door and waited for him to notice me.
Please … please …
He looked up. I smiled.
“Hi, Caleb.” I walked a few steps closer. There was nothing in his eyes. My heart shook with each second of realization. There was not going to be a miracle when he saw my face, my beautiful red hair would not usher back his memories. I was made of steel. I could handle this.
“I’m Leah.”
He glanced at the nurse — who was pretending not to notice me — and she nodded, touching his arm lightly before heading out the door.
“Hi, Leah,” he said.
“Do you — “ I caught myself before I could say anymore. I wouldn’t question whether he knew me or not — no — that would surely paint me as an uncertainty. I would simply assert who I was to him and demand that he mentally accept it.
“I’m your girlfriend. It’s weird having to explain that to you.”
He smiled — the old Caleb smile. I released the breath I was holding. God, I needed a cigarette.
I neared the side of his bed. He was pretty banged up. There were five stitches over his right eye and his face looked like a Kandinsky.
“I was so scared,” I said. “I came right away.”
He nodded and looked down at his hands. “Thank you.”
The muscles were working in his jaw as he ground his teeth. I blinked at him, unsure of what to say next. Did we start at square one? Did I give him a summary of who we were, where we’d been?
Be still my manic heart.
“Can I … can I hug you?” I shook as I waited for his answer. They were tremors of fear, a calculation of the loss I’d feel if he rejected me.
He looked up, his brows furrowed, and nodded. It was one of those great moments of relief I would always remember. My internal knots untangled and I dove at him, wrapping my arms around his neck and sobbing into his chest. For a few seconds, it was just me holding him, and then I felt his hands rest lightly on my back. I cried harder. This was so messed up. I should be comforting him, and here I was weeping.
If he had died … oh God … I would have been all alone. His mother had told me that the driver of the car had died. I’d met him once or twice at Caleb’s work functions.
When I pulled away from him, I couldn’t meet his eyes. I grabbed a wad of tissues from my purse and turned my back to him as I dabbed at my eyes.
I had to keep it together. Think positive. Soon this would be over and buried into our past. For now, I needed to be there for him. We were so good together. Even if he had no memory of before, he would see it now. I needed to make him see it. I stifled a sob. Why did this have to happen? Right when our relationship had finally been
moving forward.
“Leah.”
I froze. My name sounded foreign on his voice, like he was saying it for the first time, tonguing the syllables cautiously. I dabbed at the last of my tears and faced him … smiling.
“Are you…? God…” He balled his fists when he saw my wet eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
He looked like he was about to cry, so I sat on the edge of his bed, seeing my opportunity to be of some use.
“Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I’m fine so long as you’re fine.”
He frowned. “I’m not fine.”
“Then, neither am I, but we’re in this together.”
Chapter FifteenPresent
I am in the living room, flipping through Vogue while Caleb cooks dinner. The baby is sleeping upstairs, and the television is on some grody news station, playing just loud enough so Caleb can hear it. I am thinking about changing the channel to put on America’s Next Top Model, when I hear her name. My head snaps up. Olivia Kaspen. Her picture is on the screen, as she stands surrounded by reporters. I grab for the remote, not to turn it up, but to change the channel before Caleb can see it.
“Don’t,” I hear from behind me. I squeeze my eyes shut. Shrugging, I increase the volume. The newscaster is female. I once read a statistic that said sixty percent of men tune out female newscasters. Unfortunately for me, Caleb is not one of those men. He edges closer to the TV, the knife still in his hand. His knuckles are white. My eyes trace up his arm and rest on his face. From his nose down, his features are marble. Everything above that is registering emotion on a nuclear level. His eyebrows are drawn and his eyes look like a loaded gun ready to go off at any moment. I transfer my gaze to the television, afraid that if I keep watching him, I’ll start crying.
“The trial for Dobson Scott Orchard will begin next week. His attorney, Olivia Kaspen, who up until this point has been mum about her client, recently made a statement, saying she took the case after the accused kidnapper and serial rapist contacted her directly, asking her to represent him. It is highly speculated that Olivia, who received her undergraduate degree from the same college as one of his victims, will be issuing a plea of “Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity.”
The show switches to a commercial. I flop back against the couch. The picture they had shown of Olivia was grainy. The only thing really visible was her hair, which was much longer than it had been through my trial. I slowly pivot my neck around until I can see Caleb’s face. He is standing motionless behind me, his eyes slightly narrowed and glued to the toilet paper commercial, like he’s suspicious of their three-ply guarantee.
“Caleb?” I say. My voice catches, and I clear my throat. Tears sting at my eyes, and I have to use all of my willpower to keep them from spilling onto my cheeks. Caleb is looking at me, but he is not seeing me. I want to throw up. How fragile is my marriage, if all he has to do is look at her and I cease to exist? I turn off the television and abruptly stand up, sending the contents of my lap crashing to the floor. I grab for my purse, feeling for where I stashed my cigarettes the night I went to Mother Gothel with Sam. I pull them out, not caring if he sees … wanting him to see.
“Are you serious?”
His voice is calm, but I can see the unbridled anger in his eyes.
“You don’t own me,” I say casually, but my hand is shaking as I lift my lighter. It is such a lie. Caleb has owned every one of my thoughts and actions for the last five years. Why? Was I always such a sellout to love? I think back to my other relationships as I take a drag. No, in every relationship that came before Caleb — I had the power. I blow my smoke in his direction, but he’s gone. I stub out the cigarette. Why did I feel the need to do that? God.
I don’t go to bed. I sit on the couch all night, drinking rum straight from the bottle. Self-reflection is not something I excel in. I think of myself as being perfectly photoshopped. If I started scraping at the layers of what I’m suppressing — what I’ve put a pretty picture over — things would start looking pretty ugly. I do not like to think about who I really am, but the loneliness and alcohol are loosening my restraints. I call Sam to distract myself. When he picks up, I can hear music in the background.
“Hold on,” He says.
He comes back on a few seconds later.
“Is Estella okay?”
“Yes,” I say annoyed. I can hear his sigh of relief.
“I am not a good mother,” I announce to him. “I’m probably worse than my own self-absorbed, critical, gin and tonic drinking mother.”
“Leah, are you drinking?”
“No.”
I set the bottle of rum aside. It misses the table and crashes to the floor. Good thing it was empty. I flinch.
“You better have pumped before you did that,” he snaps.
I start crying. I did. Everyone is so judgmental.
He hears me sniffling and sighs. “You’re a pretty bad mother, yes. But, you don’t have to be.”
“Also, Caleb still has strong feelings for Olivia.”
“Can you just not focus on Caleb for once? You’re obsessed. Let’s talk about Estella-“
I cut him off. “I think I’ve always known this, but I’m not sure. I can pull dozens of memories from some private storage room in my brain that only alcohol has the key to unlock. Most of the memories are of looks — the ones he gives her and not me.” I bite my kneecap and rock back and forth.
“You know what, I have to go,” Sam says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He hangs up. I toss my phone aside. Fuck Sam.
When Caleb looks at her, his eyes shift into a different gear. It’s like he’s seeing the only thing that matters. I am sickly familiar with the way he looks at Olivia, because it is the way I look at him. When I stand up, the room swings. I am so drunk I can barely understand my own thoughts. I stumble upstairs and into my closet. I pull down bags and suitcases until I am surrounded by L’s and V’s and the subtle rich smell of leather. I’m going to leave him. I don’t deserve this. It’s just like Cammie said. I’m being half loved. I stuff a few handfuls of clothes into a bag and then collapse on the floor. Who am I kidding? I’ll never leave him. If I leave him, she wins.
I wake up with my face pressed to the floor. I groan and roll onto my back trying to fit the pieces of last night together. I feel worse than the day I gave birth. I wipe the drool from my face and stare around at the mess. Suitcases and duffel bags are littered around me like my closet rained them. Was I trying to reach something when I knocked these down? I have the violent urge to vomit, and I hurl myself towards the toilet, making it just in time to empty my stomach into the bowl. I am gasping for air when Caleb strolls in, smelling clean and fresh. He is dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, which is odd since he works today. He ignores me as he slips his watch over his hand and checks the time.
“Why are you dressed like that?” my voice is raspy like I spent the night screaming.
“I took the day off of work.”
He won’t look at me, a bad sign. I am trying to remember what I did to him, when I catch a whiff of my hair. Smoke. I inwardly groan as the memories come drifting back. That was so stupid.
“Why?” I ask cautiously.
“I need to think.”
He heads out of the bathroom, and I follow him downstairs. Sam is feeding the baby, he raises his eyebrows when he sees me, and I run my fingers through my hair self-consciously. Screw him. This is entirely his fault. Ever since he showed up, my life has slowly started unraveling.
Caleb kisses the baby on top of her head and walks toward the door like he is late for something. I chase after him.
“What do you need to think about? Divorce?”
He stops suddenly, and I slam into his back.
“Divorce?” he says. “Do you think I should divorce you?”
I swallow my pride and the challenge that is on the tip of my tongue. I have to be smart. I’ve let myself get carried away lately. Pushed him when I had the chance to make things right.
“L
et me go with you,” I say evenly. “Let’s spend the day together — talk.”
He looks unsure, his eyes darting to the nursery door. “She’ll be fine with Sam,” I assure him. “It’s not like I do anything anyway…”
My statement seems to seal the deal. He nods once, and I want to scream in relief.
“I’ll just be five minutes,” I say.
He heads out to the car to wait for me. I launch myself up the stairs two at a time and slam through the door of my closet almost falling over in the process. I put on a clean pair of jeans and pull a t-shirt over my head. In the bathroom, I splash water on my face, wiping away the smudged makeup and take a swig of mouthwash. I don’t bother with new makeup.
I come running out the front door, and I have a small heart attack when I don’t see his car. He left me. I am ready to fall down in the driveway and cry when his shiny BMW turns the corner. Relieved, I get in and try to play it cool.
“You thought I left you,” he says. There is humor in his voice, and I am so relieved to get something other than coldness, that I nod. He looks over at me, and I see surprise cross his face. I look down at myself self-consciously. I very rarely let him see me without makeup, and I never wear t-shirts.
“Where are we going?” I say, trying to distract his attention from how disgusting I look.
“You don’t get to ask questions,” he says. “You wanted to come along, so here we go…”
I’ll take it.
He turns the radio on, and we drive with the windows down. Normally I would have a fit about the wind messing up my hair, but I’m so beyond caring, I almost enjoy the feel of it on my face. He heads south on the highway. There is nothing but ocean in this direction. I can’t even begin to guess where he’s taking me.
We pull into a gravel driveway about an hour later. I sit up straighter in my seat and peer around. There is a lot of foliage. Suddenly, the trees open up, and I am staring at aquamarine water. Caleb takes a sharp left and pulls the car underneath a tree. He gets out without saying a word. When he doesn’t do his usual spiel of coming around to open my door, I jump out and follow him. We walk in silence, trailing the water until we come to a small harbor. There are four boats, bobbing gently on the swells. Two of the four are newer looking fishing boats. He passes these and heads for an old Sea Cat that is in bad need of paint.
Dirty Red Page 10
