by Carian Cole
“I’d love to. I’ll go grab a guitar.”
I trot down the hall to the master bedroom to grab my acoustic. When I return to her room, she’s under the covers. The television and lights are off except for a small, dim lamp on her nightstand.
Being in a dark bedroom with her is a torturous vortex of temptation and emotion, but eclipsing all those thoughts is the most important one of all: she trusts me enough to be alone with me.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I play her favorite songs, singing softly. She turns on her side and watches me, her eyes fluttering closed and then straining open again.
She’s fighting to stay awake. Why? To watch me play?
I can only hope.
For over an hour, I play and sing, not sure if she’s fallen asleep or just stopped struggling to keep her eyes open. Not that it matters. All that matters to me is that we’re together, and every moment together is a step toward the future I want us to have…and hopefully she does too.
When my leg starts to cramp, I ease off the bed and creep toward the door as quietly as I can so I don’t wake her.
“Don’t go.”
Her voice—her words—stop me, and I turn back toward the bed.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper, putting the guitar down near the door.
“Stay next to me?” The quiver in her voice completely shatters me as I edge back toward the bed.
“Do you want me to stay with you while you sleep?”
She nods, and I’m on cloud nine as I lie next to her, grabbing a throw blanket from the foot of the bed to cover myself. Being under the same covers with her, bodies almost touching, seems too intimate. We’re not there yet.
“It’s so quiet here,” she says. “I feel alone.”
It didn’t occur to me that she’d be so used to the nightly noise and activity of the hospital that being here might seem too still.
Here, it’s only me, her, and the chirping crickets outside.
I roll over onto my side to face her, and she stares back at me with her big green eyes in the dim light, her breathing soft and incredibly familiar.
We used to sleep this way a lot—facing each other. Only back then, she’d rest her face against my chest, right over my heart, and we’d wrap our arms around each other.
A love burrito, she used to call it.
“You won’t leave after I fall asleep?” she asks.
“No.” I touch her hand that’s curled under her chin, sliding my finger into the space between her thumb and forefinger. Her fingers tighten around mine, holding on to me.
We used to sleep this way too. When she was pregnant and we couldn’t sleep with our bodies mashed against each other, she’d hold on to my finger while she slept, teasing me that I couldn’t run away.
“I’ll be right here, I promise,” I whisper. “I’m not gonna run away.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Every morning after I shower, I go out on the master bedroom balcony to clear my head before I start the day. I wouldn’t call it meditation, but I like to breathe in the fresh air, watch the sun come up, and tell myself that every day is a new day for anything to happen.
Each day, I hoped it would be the day that Ember would wake up.
Then that day finally came.
Now I’m watching Ember in our backyard with Sarah. She moves slow and unsteady, leaning on her cane, but she’s smiling and pointing to the butterflies flitting around the garden.
Right before she came home, I hired a local butterfly guru to come to the house and create a butterfly garden. He brought his own hand-raised butterflies, and planted special flowers and bushes to create a tiny winged world just for Ember.
I wish I could stand here on the balcony and watch her all day. When she’s happy and smiling like she is now, it’s like witnessing a miracle. But it’s also like having something incredibly fragile, like a newborn baby or an expensive crystal vase. Afraid to touch it, constantly worrying if it’ll get broken, checking on it all the time to make sure it’s still whole.
Last night, I barely slept while next to her in bed. I wanted to savor every single second of being so close to her, listening to her breathe, feeling her warmth. As excited as I was, the fears crept in. The fear that her wanting me close to her was just a one-time thing. The fear that she might not wake up.
And the ultimate black cloud—that she might not ever remember our past.
As much as I want to focus on all the good things and live in the moment, hope and fear have dominated my mind for so long, I still find myself being hijacked by those thoughts.
I guess in some ways, Ember and I are both learning how to live again.
“This was your all-time favorite tea.” I hand her the warm, ceramic mug and sit next to her on the couch. Sarah’s gone to her suite for the night, and Ember chose to sit on the porch with a book.
She doesn’t know it, but it’s what she used to do almost every night.
Cupping the mug in both hands, she raises it to her lips and smiles after tasting it.
“Wow. I didn’t have anything like this in the hospital. I like it.”
“You had it in a café once and went crazy over it, so I found out what was in it and started making it for you. It’s called a London fog tea latte.”
She sips more, and a thin mustache of frothy milk lines her upper lip. It takes all my willpower not to lean across the couch and kiss it away.
“It’s creamy and sweet. What’s in it?”
“Earl grey tea, a touch of lavender, vanilla, a pinch of brown sugar, and frothed skim milk.”
She shakes her head and looks down at the tea with a shy smile. “You’re very thoughtful. And…bizarre,” she says.
“How so?”
“Because you’re sitting there with all that long hair, tattoos everywhere, that deep voice, and you’re talking about lavender and frothing milk.”
I grin and shrug. “I’m like an Oreo cookie. Hard on the outside, soft and sweet on the inside.”
She laughs into her tea, almost spilling it. “I don’t think anyone would compare you to a cookie.”
Actually, she did. A long time ago on a tour bus somewhere in Colorado in the middle of the night over cookies and cold milk.
Still cradling the mug, she looks me over, her gaze resting on the skeleton key necklace. “You always have that on. It looks old. Sorta rusty.”
My heart jumps. I’ve been wondering if the skeleton key would ever catch her attention. “It is old.”
“What does it open?”
“Something special.” I chew the inside of my cheek, contemplating. “I want to show you some things of yours in our bedroom. I think they’ll help you.”
The master bedroom was shot down by her when I gave her a tour of the house, making it the only room in the house she hasn’t ventured into yet.
“Can I bring my tea?”
“Sure, I’ll carry it for you.”
Once upstairs, she hesitates in the doorway of our bedroom, her fingers clenching and unclenching the carved maple handle of her cane.
“Are you okay?”
Her tongue skates over her lips and she inhales a deep breath. “It feels weird going in there,” she says. “Like going in someone else’s bedroom with their husband.”
Cringing inside, I put her tea on the nearest dresser and move to stand in front of her so she has to look at me. “We’ll work through it together, okay?”
Her bottom lip quivers as she nods. “Okay.”
“I’m your husband. This is our room. No one else’s.”
I reach for her hand, and she clasps mine, letting me lead her into the room. Her eyes sweep from left to right, taking in the span of the room, the dressers, the chaise lounge, the balcony, the door to the en-suite, and finally lingering on the bed.
“Can I look around?”
“Sure. Everything is pretty much exactly the way you left it. I couldn’t ever change it.”
Not sure if that makes me sentimental or
creepy.
She offers me a weak half smile before she slowly moves across the room, her eyes transfixed on our framed wedding photo.
“You weren’t kidding,” she says. “We were so young.”
Minutes tick by as she stares at the wall of black-and-white photos—all our favorites over the years.
“Kenzi was a beautiful baby,” she comments.
“Yeah, she really was.”
“We look happy.”
“We were. We had our ups and downs, but we were happy. We were always good to each other. We never fought or yelled.”
Turning from the photos, she touches the lid of the large mahogany jewelry box on top of her dresser. “Can I open this?”
“It’s all yours.”
I hold my breath as she lifts the lid. Her wedding band and engagement ring are in there nestled in red velvet, along with many other special pieces of jewelry I bought her over the years. The only item no longer in there is her favorite watch that I gave Kenzi for her eighteenth birthday.
She reaches into the jewelry box, and I suck in a breath when I realize she’s pulled out the piece I was hoping would spark even a remote amount of interest.
The butterfly ring.
Holding it between her fingers, she studies the ring intently, turning it in the light.
“This…this means something.” She glances at me for validation, her eyes filled with excitement. “The butterflies…”
Taking the ring from her trembling hand, I gently slide it onto her ring finger. It’s a little big, but it fits.
“Do you remember?” I ask softly.
Her forehead creases, her eyes squint to slits.
“I-I’m not sure. Stone steps…and a door. A blue door. And…you.” She drops her cane to rub her temple. “It hurts…”
Leaning closer, I kiss her forehead. “Don’t try to force it. Close your eyes. Listen to my voice, and see if it helps.”
Her eyes peek up to meet mine. “Okay,” she breathes. “Tell me what I’m seeing.”
“The first day we met, we spent hours in a park talking. We talked about music, writing, family, our dreams. You were about a month shy of fifteen, and I was fifteen. You were wearing a purple sweater that curved off your shoulder, with a purple lace bra strap peeking out under your hair. You had jeans on with little zippers at the ankles, and white sneakers. I was wearing jeans with holes everywhere, work boots, and a black Guns N’ Roses T-shirt. Kenzi actually wore that shirt all through high school.”
When she smiles, I keep talking. “I took you to a diner, and we talked all night, eating cheese fries and drinking vanilla malts. We held hands the entire time. We wanted the day to last forever. I finally walked you home to your parents’ house around midnight. We stood on the steps in front of your blue front door, and I asked you if I could call you when I got home. You said yes. Then I kissed your hand just like this.”
I raise her hand to my lips, planting a long, soft kiss. She watches me with wide eyes.
“You looked at me just like you’re looking at me right now, and you said, ‘Asher Valentine, you’re—’”
“—giving me some major crazy butterflies,” she whispers.
My heart jumps up into my throat. “Yes…that’s exactly what you said.”
Tears spring into her eyes as she grabs on to my hands. “I remembered. I remember. I feel it.”
“Butterflies became our thing. You loved them. I found this ring in a gift shop—the wings are gems, and the little body is a diamond. I proposed to you with it two weeks after we found out you were pregnant. It was your first engagement ring. Years later, I gave you that one.” I nod toward the three-carat solitaire and matching diamond wedding band in the jewelry box.
“I only remember this one,” she says softly. “I can’t remember anything else.” Traces of panic thread through her voice.
I cup her face in my hands. “That’s okay, baby. The rest will come. But this is awesome. You’re remembering things, little by little. That’s all that matters.”
“I said yes to you.”
I laugh, and my heart feels like it might explode. “You sure did.”
She wiggles her finger, and the stones glint and sparkle. Her eyes do the same.
“It’s so pretty. Can I keep it?”
“Hon, it’s yours.”
“I want to wear it. Should I keep looking around?”
“I was hoping you would.” I pick up her cane and hand her the cup of tea. She thanks me and drinks a little as her eyes rove the room.
“We each have a walk-in closet,” I say, sitting on the chaise so I don’t hover on top of her. “Yours is still filled with clothes.”
“Aren’t they rock star clothes?”
“There might be some stage clothes in there, but there’s a lot of jeans, blouses, yoga pants, dresses, about a hundred pairs of shoes,” I tease.
A leery glance is cast toward the closet. “Maybe I’ll look later. I like my own clothes.” She walks to the glass doors overlooking the balcony. “This is nice.”
I sit quietly as she walks around the room like it’s a museum, touching little trinkets, peeking into drawers. She pauses beside the bed and stares down at it.
“Is this our same bed?”
“Yup. You slept on that side.”
I always stayed on my own side, even sleeping alone. In my mind, and in my heart, she was always right there next to me.
She sits on her side and runs her palms over the comforter.
“It smells like you in here,” she says. “I don’t mean that in a bad way. You always smell like a holiday I can’t remember, or maybe it doesn’t exist at all.”
“It’s funny you say that, because I can still smell your perfume here.”
She crinkles her nose and smiles at me. “I only smell you.”
Her eyes stay on me as I walk to the nightstand next to her side of the bed and open the cabinet door beneath.
“This is what I really wanted to show you.” I pull the leather journals out and lay them on the bed in front of her.
“What are these?”
“These are your journals.”
Curiosity flashes in her eyes. “All of these?”
“Yes. I made one for you every year. My grandfather taught me how when I was young. I gave you the first one not long after we met.”
She brushes her fingertips over the aged leather cover of one of the books, nudging at the brass lock.
“They’re locked?”
“The key is on a necklace in your jewelry box. It opens all of them.”
She points to the old key around my neck. “What about that one?”
“This one,” I lift the chain from around my neck and untangle it from my long hair, “opens something very special. You used to wear this every day, but when you got hurt, I started wearing it.” I hold the chain over her head, and she ducks into it as I put it around her neck. “Now it’s yours again.”
She touches it lightly. “Does it open a journal?”
“I can’t tell you. If you remember what this opens, then I think you’ll remember everything.”
“Wow. No pressure there,” she teases.
“I have faith in you.”
Smiling, she lets out a breath and turns her attention back to the journals. “It’s cool that you made all these. What did I write about?”
I wish I knew.
“I never read them. I was hoping if you read them, it might help you connect to yourself. It might be a good way for you to revisit your past in your own voice rather than me or someone else telling you.”
She tilts her head and shuffles the journals around. “Which one is first?”
“There’s dates on the inside. You’ll have to open them to see.”
“What if there’s bad stuff inside?”
Good question.
“I don’t think there is, but if there is, you have a right to know. We’ll cross those bridges if we have to.”
“What if I
find out Ember was having a torrid affair with the gardener or the pool boy? Or both? That happens a lot in your mom’s books.”
Thanks, Mom…
“Well, that’s not real life. It’s fantasy stuff in a book.”
“People have affairs in real life.”
“That’s true, but I’m sure Ember wasn’t having an affair.”
Shit. I just referred to her as someone else.
“We were happy. Me and you,” I clarify. “Both of us are against any sort of cheating.”
She arranges all the journals in a neat tower.
“This many journals happy? This is years of writing down thoughts.”
“I’m sure.”
“You seriously never read any of these? Not even a peek?”
“Nope. They’re private.” I was tempted to read them. Many times. I can’t count how many nights I sat here with a journal in my hand on the verge of unlocking and reading it. To be close to her. To learn more about her. To find out if there were things she thought about or wanted that I didn’t know. I always put the journals back. Unread. No matter what, they weren’t mine to read. It would’ve been worse to read things that might have dredged up questions that I’d never be able to talk to her about and get the answers to.
She side-eyes me. “It’s a little scary how perfect you are. I watched a lot of television in the hospital. Perfect people are usually hiding something.”
Damn. Books and movies are not doing me any favors.
“I promise I’m not hiding anything. And I’m not perfect, Em. I’m just a regular guy who tries to do the right thing. That’s all.”
I can’t help but think of the day of the accident, when Ember told me she was unhappy and lonely and wanted a baby. It was the first time she ever talked about feeling unhappy.
I never got the chance to fix it. Until now.
Is it possible she met someone else, maybe saw a glimpse of what life would be like with another guy? Did it tempt her? She knew how hard it was going to be for me to dial back on my career, no matter how much I wanted to. Could she have been teetering on the edge of trying to choose between me and starting over with someone new?
No. Ember would never do that.
She could’ve written about it, though.