Despite the lack of contacts on my phone, I still had access to the web. Not that it mattered much. Forty-five minutes of searching brought up little more than my address and phone listing. If I was a musician, I wasn’t well known.
Nor would I ever be…
Ignoring the warmth pumping through my damaged fingers, I placed my phone on the couch and strolled toward my room. Part of me wanted to get out of this house and do something other than ogle walls I vaguely remembered. The other part wanted to remain here, away from people. There would be no constant fear of them gawking at my hand.
Perhaps I was too self-conscious about my fingers and the dark purple lines that extended from tip to knuckle. Keeping them bandaged didn’t help. It didn’t keep Brighton from gawking, and he knew what happened to cause the hideous scars. There was nothing to stop curious strangers from staring. Some might be bold enough to ask questions—questions I didn’t have answers for. Neither did the World Wide Web.
As I approached the bed, I caught a glimpse of the curtains covering the door to the patio. Just beyond it were the trees that held the hammock. Even though the morning started with cold temperatures, it was shaping up to be a pleasant February day. Brighton mentioned a warm front traveling through. It would be gone late tomorrow, bringing colder temperatures and possible snow.
Although I remembered a lot of the streets we’d taken from the hospital to the house, I didn’t remember all of them. Driving anywhere didn’t seem a safe idea. If I were serious about getting out of the house, today would be the day to take advantage.
By the time I’d changed clothes and put on a light jacket, the other window came into view. The lake spread toward the horizon as far as I could see. Clouds swept across the sky, covering the sun for short intervals. If my memory was correct, there was a bit of beach across from the house and some rock formations. There would be no crowds in a residential area. It would be everything I wanted. Freedom and solitude.
I hurried toward my bedroom door when I spotted the guitar. Still positioned at the end of my bed, it looked as lonely as I felt. Maybe Brighton was right. The musician within me needed to emerge and express the pain tearing me apart. Then it would heal my weakened body along with my shattered soul.
Once I wrapped the strap around my neck, I left my room and made my way to the front of the house. I swiped the keys off the hook near the door and closed it behind me. The breeze coming off the lake had a nip to it that bit my cheeks. I didn’t mind. In a way, it refreshed me.
The snow-covered ground from the prior week had turned marshy. Each of my steps made a sloshing sound until the waterlogged dirt mixed with sand. The ground grew firmer, my stride faster. I approached the edge of my property and the woods behind it. Both met the slender, sandy path that extended east and west. More houses populated the west side. In the east, a bend of trees blocked my view of what lay beyond it.
Curiosity led me east.
I didn’t go far when I found a little cove with a few rocks that would make a suitable bench. The sun heated the surface enough to warm my bottom. It helped me battle the cooler lake air. So did the sun.
The base of the guitar filled my lap while my hand cradled the neck. I didn’t touch the chords, even when I placed my damaged hand beside the plectrum. No songs came to mind, not because I couldn’t recall them, but because none seemed to resonate with the array of emotions I battled. I felt more than angry and confused. I felt empty.
Staring at the lake, I thought of its enormity and how easy it would be to lose a person under its murky surface. My mind was the same. I lost part of myself inside it, and the more I struggled to rescue those memories, the more I felt myself drowning in desperation.
Brighton refused to help. If the roles were reversed, I’d give him the answer he wanted… I know I would. Only I didn’t really know. I could make assumptions all day long, but claiming one thing then living through the situation often brought about different results.
There had to be someone who knew as much as my brother did but would be willing to share the information with me. I didn’t have any visitors at the hospital unless they came while I was in the coma. None came after I woke, and I didn’t have any within the last week.
Then again, I’d slept on and off so much that reality became a blur. I don’t remember what was real or a dream. If someone had stopped by, I wouldn’t recall it. I wasn’t sure if Brighton had threatened me with a trip to the psych ward like I’d thought.
Still, my inability to recall visitors or family names didn’t mean Brighton was the only person in my life. Granted, our parents were gone, but they weren’t the last of our family.
Memories rushed forward. We had a maternal grandmother who was still alive, unless she had died in the last few weeks. If my damaged memory served me right, she was in a nursing home. No way would she have come by the hospital or house.
So my grams hadn’t been there. No other family came to mind, but neither explained my lack of friends. What if my memories came back and were as bleak as I feared? That I didn’t have anyone but my brother.
Maybe I was better off this way…
Everything in my soul said I was wrong, that there was more to my life, but I couldn’t prove it. The few pictures I’d noticed this morning weren’t of anyone but my brother and me. Had there been more at one time? If my doctor wanted me to remember on my own, perhaps Brighton had removed them.
Looking at the ones that were here hurt me, because they provided me with another level of heartache. Most had been taken when we were younger and included his guitar and my piano. The pictures were a reminder of what I’d lost—my greatest passion—my life dream.
Making music.
I swiped the tear rolling down my wind-bitten cheek. My chest tightened with each heave expelling the air from my lungs. When I finally inhaled, my hand muffled my cries. I wept…for the loss of my memories…for my damaged fingers…for the constant knot in my stomach.
The pain wouldn’t go away. How could it? My sadness stemmed from more than an injured hand or lost memories. It originated from one solitary fact.
I was alone.
* * *
Despite the tingling sensation spreading across my bottom, I didn’t move from the rock, hadn’t moved for the last hour. I was only guessing at the time. For all I knew, three hours had passed. It’s not like it mattered. I didn’t have someone waiting for me at home. If Brighton had returned, he would have found me by now.
The guitar blocked most of the wind from my body. My jeans and boots kept my legs warm enough. The jacket I wore did the same for my arms. My face took the brunt of the breeze. It numbed my skin like the rock did my rear.
I dug into my coat pocket and removed the bandage I brought. A few spins around my fingers had them safely secure within the soft material. Then I repositioned the guitar and strummed a few chords. The last note hung as I struggled to remember a song. None came to mind, yet something inside me snapped.
It didn’t matter if I knew a song. I could make my own.
When the note began to fade, I strummed again. My fingers slid against the strings to form multiple chords. A melody poured from the resonating chamber, a melody that came from no other place than my heart.
Closing my eyes, I gave in to the instincts refusing to be ignored. I tucked my bandaged fingers away and pinched the pick between my thumb and index finger. It scraped across the strings each time I strummed. The faster I worked my good fingers, the quicker the tempo grew.
As the song came to life, so did my mind.
Something flickered like a strobe light. Each flash quickened my heart to the point I opened my eyes and stared at the lake. As I continued playing, the music wrapped around me, but it didn’t distract me from fighting to connect the pieces of my memory.
Voices echoed in my head. The words blended enough that I couldn’t understand them. The flashing light blinded me, causing the beach to disappear. I struggled for each breath. Fear stole my sanity and it felt as though m
y lungs were filling with water.
I choked.
“Just breathe.”
The masculine voice came from behind me. It jarred the memories from my head and cleared my vision enough that when I turned toward the sound, a face came into view. I tried to speak, but a round of coughing ensued.
“Look at me,” he commanded. “Draw a breath in through your nose and release it through your mouth. Then do it again.”
I followed his directions and took in a series of shallow breaths. The air was cool and crisp. It steadied my heartbeats enough for my anxiety to subside. My breathing slowed and I stopped trembling, even when he moved closer.
“Better?”
I nodded. “Th—thank you. I uh… I don’t know what happened.”
“It was the song. It opened something inside you while you were playing.”
He was right. I didn’t know how he knew that, unless he was a musician himself. “It sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”
His lips crooked in a tender smile. “Maybe I am.”
It was crazy. Seeing him at all. Even if he were real, it would still be insane to talk to a strange man on a deserted beach with no one around to hear me scream if he snapped. Nothing about him seemed homicidal, but the tattoos I noticed on his forearms said he wasn’t the black-tie crowd our parents were friends with.
Still didn’t mean he would rape and mutilate me the second I let my guard down. And if he were real, I would be forced to admit something I didn’t want—that I trusted a complete stranger over my brother.
“Last night…you said your name is Adam, right?” When he nodded, I couldn’t help but grin at my vivid imagination. Creating a person’s name was a lot easier than a song title. In reality, I shouldn’t be so amused with myself.
“Okay, Mr. Adam. Do you have a last name?”
He stared at my lips, as if he knew I was doing my best not to laugh. I worried it would offend him. Then he gazed up. “It’s Hart. Adam Hart.”
Of course it was. Hart…Hayes…they were similar, but different enough that my mind thought it could trick me. Screw it. If my mind wanted to create some mysterious man with soulful eyes, pouty lips, and body that invoked naughty thoughts, I wouldn’t complain in the least.
“So, Mr. Hart—”
“Just Adam.”
“Okay, Adam. Do you have any tips that will prevent me from having a panic attack when I play?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
By this time, he’d come the rest of the way around the rock so that he faced me. The safe and respectable distance that existed between us disappeared. His knee brushed the rock just a few inches from my leg.
I accepted the challenge of being close to him. It’s not like he could reach out and touch me anyway. I had to remind myself he was imaginary, which was really hard when he leaned closer.
“And what tips do you have?” I hadn’t forgotten how to flirt, or how doing so gave me a small sense of satisfaction.
Adam’s face hovered a few inches from mine. I could smell the peppermint scent of his breath when he parted his lips and spoke again.
“Just breathe.”
I wanted to ask him for clarification, but frantic shouting echoed from somewhere in the distance. It sounded like Brighton’s voice.
Adam continued around the rock to the opposite side from where he approached. He peered over his shoulder and flashed his pearly whites at me before disappearing behind a larger rock.
There was no doubt he’d heard my brother yelling like a crazed banshee. If I were Adam, I’d leave too…
I gave myself a mental kick in the butt. Why did I keep thinking of him like he was a living, breathing person?
This couldn’t be healthy. Deep down I knew that, but I didn’t care. The few minutes he’d been here, I’d forgotten about everything that made me upset. My hand. My amnesia. My brother and his secrets. The closer Brighton grew, the more I realized something about myself.
So what if I was losing what was left of my mind. If it meant seeing Adam, I liked being crazy.
~ CHAPTER SEVEN ~
Hell hath no fury like a brother scorned…or scared shitless. Brighton’s chest rose and fell as he stood before the rock, scanning me from head to toe. When I saw his face, I stood as well. I’d never seen him so full of fear, not even when we were told our parents had been killed in an eighteen-car pileup on the interstate.
Yet the more he examined me, the more I remembered a similar instance. The same concern covered his face much like it did at this moment, but the memory held one difference. Tears had streaked his cheeks. Tears and blood.
“Jo?” His voice vanquished my thoughts. “Why are you out here? You shouldn’t be in this wind. It’s—”
“I like the wind. I like the way it nips at my skin. It doesn’t bother me.”
“That’s great, but it doesn’t mean you won’t get sick.”
“Bullshit, Brighton.” My cursing shocked him. It’s not like it was my first time saying what most considered a bad word, but I didn’t do it often. I couldn’t have. The way his eyes bulged confirmed my suspicion.
“I appreciate your concern, but not all of my memories are gone. I’ve always been a cold-weather girl, the snow queen as you once called me. I can handle the cool temperatures. Let’s talk about why you’re really here.”
“I came back to fix you lunch, only I walk into an empty house. Your car is in the driveway, so I knew you didn’t go anywhere. Two thoughts came to my mind. You’d either been abducted or you ran off. I panicked.”
“Really? That’s your excuse for tearing across the yard, screaming my name like a depraved lunatic? Or was it the fact you saw me talking to someone?”
“Talking to someone?” His face pinched. “I didn’t see you talking to anyone, Jo.” He looked away from me and surveyed the area. “Who was it? What did they want?”
“Why does it matter? You scared him off with your shrieking.”
“Him?” Brighton moved away from the rock as he ogled the east side of the beach toward the bend of trees. The muscles in his neck tightened when he swallowed. “Did you know this guy?”
Sure…if him showing up in my bedroom last week counted as knowing him.
I wanted to say the words aloud, but I knew Brighton would be upset. Then he’d panic and usher me back in the house like a child. I wasn’t a child. In fact, I was older than him, even if it was only by a minute.
“Brighton, you need to relax. He heard me playing and stopped to comment on my song.”
“Listen, there’s a park past these woods. One of the trails comes close to this part of the beach. You don’t know who could wander off the path and stumble across this area. Someone could hurt you. You’ve been through enough.”
“You know, I don’t get you at all. One minute you say you can’t tell me anything about my past, then you tell me little things like this. You’ve caught yourself from slipping up several times. What are you hiding from me, Brighton?”
He gripped my shoulders and nosed closer. “Don’t you think I would tell you if I could?”
Desperation thickened his voice, but it set my blood on fire. “Would you?”
“Yes,” he growled. “Do you think I want your only memories of me to be some strung out junkie who’s stealing for a fix?”
The more he choked on his words, the more I battled with the anger he incited. “I’m not buying this psychogenic amnesia crap. Why would telling me what happened hurt me?”
He loosened his hold on me as his shoulders slumped. “We don’t know for sure if it will. But if it does, it could be life damaging, Jo. There’s a chance of you never recovering your memories.”
Easing back to the rock, the guitar brushed against my leg when it fell. I caught it before it hit the ground and pulled it into my lap. Staring past Brighton, I clung to the instrument as if it would keep the sadness within me from spilling out. I didn’t want to hate him any more than I wanted to cry.
&n
bsp; I couldn’t resist either.
My eyes blurred until I blinked. Tears warmed my cheeks as they rolled off my face. “I have an ache inside me that won’t stop, no matter how much I want it to. It starts here,” I moved the guitar away long enough to point toward my stomach, “and it spreads head to toe, to the point I can’t move. I just want to cry and give in to the ache.”
“Jo—”
“I’m serious, Brighton.” As I held the guitar close, I leaned my head against its neck. “I don’t feel like breathing.”
Brighton kneeled before me. His face came into view, but he wasn’t looking at me. Dark bangs swept against his face as he glanced at his feet. “I’m sorry, Jo. I wish I could—”
“What? Take away my pain?” My laughter echoed off the rocks, though it sounded as dark as my soul felt. “You can. Just tell me what happened.”
The muscles in his jaw flexed, dimpling his skin. It wasn’t until his nostrils flared that I second-guessed my decision to discuss this.
“We’re just trying to protect you.”
“We?” I waved away his excuse when his lips pressed tighter. “It’s only you, Brighton. I have no one else.”
He still couldn’t meet my gaze, even when he answered, “I meant your doctor and me.”
And there it was. The truth I didn’t want to face. Aside from Brighton, there was no one else. Adam didn’t count. He wasn’t real. I had to create imaginary people because I’d either alienated everyone I knew or I was a head case who had no friends and preferred it that way. Either version I hated.
Standing up, I moved a few steps past my brother and headed toward the house. The sand slowed my progression to the point that I thought the ground was swallowing me. I stopped. My body teetered as heat flashed through every nerve.
I heard the distant cry of Brighton’s voice when he called my name. He was a few feet away but it sounded as if it were a few hundred. I couldn’t turn toward him. I couldn’t do anything but give in to the weight of my heart. It continued sinking. So did I. The ground grew closer to my face. My surroundings inverted.
Heartstrings Page 6
