by J. L. Berg
She had enough burdens without being weighed down with all of mine.
“I thought so, too, but then he asked me what kind of man he’d been in his past life to deserve such treatment.”
A snort escaped Sarah’s lips as she shook her head.
“So I told him exactly the type of man he was.”
“And?” she asked.
“It was like watching a mountain crumble. As his face fell, I saw the life drain from it as well. That wasn’t something that could be faked, Sarah. The old August isn’t there anymore, or at least not right now.”
She studied me for a moment or two, trying to gauge my expression before replying. “Could he come back? Will the memories return?”
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. It was something I’d been thinking about a lot lately, as I lay in bed, too restless to sleep, too tired to get up. What if that monster did return one day? What happened then?
“Wow, Ev, I don’t know what to say. How is Ryan handling it all?” she asked as her warm gaze met mine. She leaned forward to take my hand.
Looking down at our joined fingers, I smiled, grateful to have Sarah in my life. She always brought me out of my tortoiselike shell. “Like he always does—in stride. First he was shaken a bit by the news, and then he went into defense mode, figuring out the best way to keep us secure. You know how logical he gets in situations like this.”
“And what did he come up with?” she inquired.
“He said we should just keep the status quo. Go about our lives like usual—ignore August. And if the time comes that it becomes a problem, we’ll deal with it.”
Her eyes met mine and as usual, I know she saw more than most.
“And what do you think? Do you believe in the status quo?”
As much as it pained me to admit it, I shook my head.
“No,” I answered honestly. “Not with August back in our lives.”
* * *
I saw him again.
This time he was bending down to tie his shoe. His short brown hair fluttered in the salty sea breeze and my lungs began to burn and soon I was gasping for air. No, it wasn’t him, couldn’t be him. The build of his body was all wrong, the shape of his nose was different—and yet I faltered, all because of a stupid pair of shoes. Shiny, black—expensive. Exactly the type August would have preferred.
There once was a time when he hadn’t cared about the type of shoe that covered his feet. Shoes, clothes…none of it had mattered. Back when things had been simpler—easier.
Happier.
The man who wasn’t him turned slightly, his face catching the light from the sun high above us as he rose, the untied laces now fixed, and went on his way down the street while I still stood unmoving, cemented to the ground.
Lost in a memory.
* * *
“How is he today?” I asked the maid as she quietly shifted around the room, trying not to disturb me as she set the morning tray beside the bed.
Her troubled eyes met mine and I knew instantly that it was another bad day. There had been a string of bad days that bled into weeks now. There had once been a time when he would confide in me—ask me for advice when it came to his life, no matter what the cause. We had been a team—a strong partnership.
Now he just disappeared into that damned office of his and paced. Paced the floor like a man awaiting the gates of Hell. For all I knew, maybe he was. With Trent by his side, he very well could have done a deal with the devil himself. August swore Trent was a great guy and an even better partner, but I had my reservations. Trent seemed like a snake, waiting for his moment to strike.
“He’s in a mood, Miss—I won’t lie. I heard him on the phone earlier this morning shouting. It didn’t sound good.”
I nodded and thanked her before she stepped out. This had been our routine for the last several days. A phone call, a visit, an early morning meeting—there was always something.
Maybe hiding out in my room wasn’t the answer anymore. Perhaps I just needed to be there for him—like I once was.
Feeling invigorated for the first time in a while, I jumped out of bed and quickly dressed, leaving the tray of food completely untouched. I applied a small amount of makeup, pinned my hair back and spritzed on a little of the vanilla perfume I knew August liked. Feeling eager, I raced out in search of him, my mood lifting high and light in anticipation of our morning reunion.
As expected, I found him downstairs, tucked away in that dark office he loved so much. What I didn’t expect to find was August surrounded by a crowd of people. They were buzzing back and forth between racks of designer clothing, dodging between each other as they grabbed jackets and pants, one after another, each trying to best the other in their display of overpriced fabric.
No doubt there would be a hefty tip for whoever pleased him the most. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes as one of them fluttered past me, the sharp smell of expensive cologne in their wake.
August caught my gaze in the reflection of the mirror as he adjusted a plum-colored tie tightly around his throat. The jewel tone went nicely with his hazel green irises, bringing out the slight variation of color that sometimes went unnoticed by others.
Not by me, though.
I saw everything. All of him. I had since the very beginning.
His smile lit up the room when he saw me standing by the door, and in that moment I felt my belly alight with fire and an anxiety I hadn’t felt in a long time. It felt good. And right.
“You look happy this morning,” I said, stepping forward to stand behind him, watching his reflection in the mirror.
“I am,” he replied. “Had a bit of a rough start, but that’s all behind us now.” He turned around, a glimmer of excitement in his eyes as his hands reached for my waist.
“Anything I can help with?” I asked as his warm fingers dug into my skin.
“No, just a misunderstanding. Nothing you need to worry about. Besides, there’s something I wanted to tell you. We’ve been invited to the Hope Gala next weekend.”
My nose wrinkled in disappointment. “I thought those types of things weren’t really based on invite but rather on donation.” I quickly skimmed the room, seeing rows and rows of what appeared to be the same stuffy, boring pants and jackets over and over. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimmer, but my gaze was quickly brought back to August as he tugged on my chin.
“Oh, it is. And a hefty donation was made in our names.” He grinned. “But even though they say it’s for charity, they’re still pretty stingy on who they let through the door at one of these events. And I’ve been trying to get us in for weeks.”
“Why?” I asked, trying to remain positive. He seemed happy for the first time in weeks. I should be, too.
“Why?” he repeated, as if the answer were plainly written across his flawless face. “Why? Because, Everly. We’re one of them now. It’s only fitting they know it. Having this house, wearing the clothes and living the lifestyle isn’t enough. I want them to know who we are.”
The lighthearted mood I’d had when I’d entered his study finally fell to the floor. I’d hoped I would be the one to light his spirits and wash away his troubles, but someone had already beaten me to the punch.
Or something.
The one thing that had managed to weasel its way into our life without ever making a sound. It was sneakier than a mistress and more addictive than the priciest cocaine.
Money.
It was the one thing August worshiped now. Above God, and family.
And me.
Nothing brought him out of the darkness more than a new suit or a fancy pair of shoes. As I watched him turn back around, the attendants flocked back to him to show him everything they’d brought. His happy eyes met mine and he waved me toward the corner, where my stash was.
The glitz I’d seen out of the corner of my eye.
“Try something on, babe. Try it all on. Hell, take it all!” He laughed as he bent down to tie a pair of shoes tha
t matched the jacket he’d just pulled on.
“Perfect,” he said, standing tall and broad in front of the mirror. “Just perfect,”
As I sulked back into the corner, my fingers skimming the fabric of the priceless designer gowns, I felt like the life we’d built together had become something less than perfect.
It was broken.
So very broken.
* * *
I blinked once, twice as Ryan’s familiar voice pushed through the haze. Traffic noise rung in my ears as the bright afternoon sun warmed my chilly cheeks.
“You ready to go?” he asked as he stepped out of the sporting goods store he’d been rummaging through. Looking around, I slowly returned to the present, the salty sea air reminding me of where I was and everything I’d accomplished and left behind since that moment I’d realized I’d been replaced in August’s gilded world.
Blinking back into reality, I quickly looked down the street. The man with the fancy shoes was gone, a ghost of the past, much like the memory I’d allowed to take over just now.
Turning back to the gentle man before me I smiled, snaking my arm through his as we stepped onto the street to continue our lazy stroll down the wharf.
“Ready,” I answered, resting my head on his shoulder.
Ready for what, I wasn’t certain. But I had a feeling that our idea of keeping the status quo was about to be obliterated.
Chapter Six
August
The next couple of weeks in the hospital became a whirlwind of activity as the doctors and nurses prepared for my release. Everything revolved around making sure I was healthy enough, both mentally and physically, to assimilate back into the real world.
No one knew when or even if my memories would ever resurface, but everyone agreed—there was no point in waiting.
Life had to go on—with or without them.
I was placed in physical therapy, counseling and psychotherapy. The toll my body had taken from being practically listless for two years was staggering and although my caregivers had done everything in their power to prevent as much atrophy and deterioration as possible, it had occurred anyway.
From the few pictures I’d found of myself scattered among my personal belongings, I knew I barely resembled the man I once was. Where broad shoulders had given way to tight lean muscles now only pale skin remained. My hair had grown out, unruly and disorderly, as if each little hair was rebelling against the well-manicured man who used to occupy this body.
In between sessions intended to help me re-learn how to move my weary limbs, I was shoved into counseling sessions where I spent hours having my mental health assessed.
I silently wondered if my hatred for psychiatrists was new or old.
I was given homework by the crazy loon the hospital assigned to me. Like a damned child. After each session, I was sent back to my room with a loaner laptop to research the time I’d spent away from the world, as he called it. Dr. Schneider—or as I liked to call him, Dr. HappyFeelGood—wanted me to adjust, first to the outside world, and then when I was released we could work on reacquainting me with, well…me.
So after another brutal session with Dr. HappyFeelGood, I lay back in my hospital bed, my eyes searching out the city below, wondering what life outside might be like now.
It’d only been two years. Two fucking years.
It seemed insignificant and insurmountable at the same time.
It wasn’t like I was one of those coma patients who awoke after decades and found the entire world completely altered—family and friends dead or aged beyond recognition—with an entire lifetime of history behind them.
Two years really wasn’t that long—a couple of iPhone upgrades. Maybe a few missed holidays. But for someone who’d been asleep for those twenty-four months, I wondered just how much I’d missed. My fingers itched to turn on the television, to binge watch the news and late night TV. But I had been instructed not to do so.
“Only research the time you lost for now,” the doctor had instructed.
Why? I had no idea. Probably to keep my weak, fragile brain from overloading. The way everyone tiptoed around me in here, that seemed a real possibility. Like I was a recently found nuclear bomb no one knew how to diffuse. The nurses and doctors all spoke in hushed tones when they entered my room, as if anything louder than a whisper might set me off into some deranged fit. Hell, even the woman who brought in my food looked fearful of me.
Was I that much of a freak?
Didn’t people wake up from comas all the time?
I guess not.
I knew I was a rarity. I understood the situation was unique and they were treading in uncharted territory when it came to treating me, but it still hurt.
The loneliness. My solitary life.
I was a man brought back from the brink of death to what? Usually you read these amazing stories of coma patents waking up to be reunited with their families…wives and loved ones.
I had no one.
Nothing but a box of memories I didn’t understand.
I pulled closer the ancient laptop the hospital psychologist had loaned me and rested it on my lap. Booting it up, I tapped on the Internet icon and waited for it to load. Staring at the blank screen, I tried to decide what to search—knowing full well my session would be monitored later.
Sneaky doctor.
“Major events in 2013,” I started with, feeling good with my decision. Might as well go with the headlines first.
Thirty seconds later, I regretted my decision and made a mental note to never watch the news again. Boston Marathon bombing, typhoon in the Philippines…the U.S. Government shutting down. Hell, couldn’t anything good headline the news every once in a while?
I scrolled down and saw the Pope had resigned. I found myself chuckling.
Couldn’t really blame him.
I couldn’t continue. For once, I realized Dr. HappyFeelGood might actually know what he was talking about. That simple search solidified so much for me.
Life really had gone on without me.
People had been born, died…fought for our country, all while I lay helpless in this bed.
And here I was, still so incredibly helpless.
How did I get it back?
I wanted it all back.
* * *
Several days later, I found myself back on the other side of the hospital, in the familiar office of Dr. Schneider. From the floor-to-ceiling wooden bookshelves to the impressive Tiffany style lamps, I could tell the happy doctor was a lover of the classics. Even the couch he offered me was like something right out of a Sigmund Freud museum.
“Did you use the laptop?” he asked, fully aware that I hadn’t. After my initial perusal on the Internet, I’d decided the past was better left there. I couldn’t handle any more bad news.
“No,” I answered casually.
It’d been less than a week since I’d last seen him and I think, based on the way his forehead creased together and the annoying way he tapped his pen against his notepad, he didn’t believe I was making enough headway in my recovery.
Of course, as he put it, every brain injury was unique, so how he could definitively decide what was normal or “enough” in this case was beyond me.
But then again, I was just the patient.
He was the guy sitting in the fancy leather wingbacked chair, in an office littered with diplomas and plaques all singing his praises and educational accolades. He obviously should know better.
I sat back with my arms folded tightly across my chest, an unconscious response to my personal distaste for being here. I was frustrated to my very core—with the man sitting across from me. With this hospital.
With myself.
If I’d been given an option, shown what life would be like minutes before my eyes fluttered open in that hospital room weeks earlier, I’m not sure I would have chosen to wake up.
Who would choose this life?
“You seem more agitated today,” Dr. Schneider commented,
writing something down on his notepad, before lifting his foot up to rest on his opposite knee.
I stared at the yellow pad of paper for a moment, the dark black chicken scratch of his writing illegible from where I was sitting.
Did all doctors have messy handwriting?
I shook my head, trying to clear the cobwebs.
“Just frustrated…”
More scribbling.
“I noticed you didn’t utilize the laptop much.” He looked up, waiting for a response.
“I didn’t really see a point.”
His face scrunched together in that way that told me he was displeased, or maybe even a little disappointed. Perhaps this was what a child felt like when calling out answers in a classroom, over and over—watching the teacher shake his or her head, let down by the failure of her pupils.
I had no memories of my childhood, so I wouldn’t know.
Maybe I had been one of those kids—the defiant ones who never gave the right answer, unwilling to conform to the norm. Or had the guy with the perfect hair and blank stare been an exemplary student—scared to step a foot out of order?
Perhaps a mixture of both?
What if I never found out?
“What are you thinking about?” Dr. Schneider interrupted my thoughts, sending my gaze upward. I met his pointed look as I tried to decide which type of pupil I wanted to be in that moment.
Teacher’s pet or non-conformist.
“What if I never get the memories back?” I finally asked, ditching the idea of games in search of answers.
“It is possible they may never return, August. That is a reality you must face.”
For once, I appreciated his honesty.
“How will I know what kind of man to be?”
“Does it matter?” he asked, before adding, “You have a gift, August. I know you don’t see it that way, but you have to find the silver lining in your situation. Not many people are given a second chance in life—a do-over, if you will. That is exactly what you have. If you aren’t liking the type of man you are discovering you were before—become someone else. Do whatever you wish. Find new talents, discover new ambitions. Live, August.”
