“What about Mr. West?” I said, uncertain if I really wanted to know. I sat down and watched Jarret wipe relish off the deck.
Jarret shot Bobby a death glare hotter than the last one.
Bobby shut his mouth, and Jarret finished cleaning the deck. The second he straightened, Bobby said, “Hey, Mr. West, can we play ball?”
“No.” Jarret stomped into the house with the bag of broken glass.
“Ple-e-ease.” Bobby hopped up and followed Jarret into the house.
A cabinet slammed and I jumped. The faucet came on. “Get out, Bobby.”
“Ple-e-ease.”
“No.”
“Ple-e-ease.”
All the begging tugged at my heart, if only Jarret—
“All right.” His voice held intense exasperation. “Ten minutes. Then you go. Deal?”
“Deal.” Bobby dashed back outside and leaped off the deck.
Scowling all the way, Jarret stomped into the shady backyard. He stood with one hand on his hip and sighed as he waited for Bobby to get the ball and gloves from under the deck. Bobby tossed Jarret a glove and jogged to his position near the neighbor’s fence. Bobby threw the ball. Jarret lunged to catch it and threw it back, right to Bobby’s glove. Bobby threw again. Jarret raced and lunged to catch it, then whipped it directly to Bobby.
I watched for a minute then finished clearing the table and wiping down the patio furniture. With everything clean and in order, I had nothing to do but watch them, so I made myself comfortable on the top step of the deck.
Jarret frowned and muttered under his breath, but an occasional smile broke through and not only when he made Bobby reach to catch the ball. Something about his smile drew me. Maybe because I rarely saw him do it.
“What happened to yuh new ball?” Bobby caught and threw the ball.
“I dunno.” Jarret reached overhead and barely caught the ball. “Don’t worry about it. This one’s fine.” He whipped it back.
Bobby’s next ball sailed too far away from Jarret. Jarret sprung for it. He reached. He took to the air. His glove skimmed the ball. Then he fell and slid through the grass, coming to a stop on his side. “Caught it.” Victory written on his face, he waved the glove in the air.
Bobby laughed, making me laugh.
Jarret smiled at me as he got up and brushed himself off.
Before long, I couldn’t stop smiling. Jarret had stopped frowning and seemed to enjoy himself. Maybe he wasn’t as mean and tough as he acted. He and Bobby probably played ball all the time. Maybe he did like kids. Maybe he put on a front to protect his image. Or maybe he didn’t want Bobby to find out I’d lost my memory and report it to the neighbors. Or maybe—
“Hey.” Bobby dropped the ball and jogged to the bushes at the back of the yard. “I know where yuh new ball is.” Using his foot, he rooted through bushes and weeds. “Last time we played I threw it back yonder. Then those girls came over, and you made me leave before I even had a chance to find it.”
“Never mind.” Jarret glanced at me.
“Girls? What girls?” I said.
Bobby searched through weeds. “I dunno. Two girls, older than me. I think they go to high school.”
“Was I home?”
“Nah, it was just me and Mr. West.”
“Never mind.” Jarret’s scowl was back in full force. “Time’s up, anyways. You need to go.”
“Here it is!” Bobby stooped then straightened with a clean white baseball in his hand. “Found it.”
“Good. Time for you to go.” Jarret stomped over and snatched the ball from him.
“Who were the girls?” Tension forming in my chest, I stood and folded my arms. Not that I was jealous. It was just that... Eww, what a louse! Was it the night I’d come home with a head injury? I was out in a car accident, getting mugged, or whatever, and he’s home with two girls. Was one of them the adoring girl in the grocery store?
“Your mother’s calling you, Bobby,” Jarret said. “Better go.”
Bobby jerked his face toward the house. “I don’t hear her.”
“Well, I do.” Jarret snatched the glove from Bobby and took it, along with his glove and the two balls, to the deck.
Bobby made his goodbyes and dashed through the side yard.
With one foot on the bottom step, Jarret peered up at me, the worry of a trapped rat lurking in his eyes.
“So, you had girls over while I was out, huh? Was that the night I came home late?”
“I didn’t have girls over. They came over on their own. We know them from our volunteer work. Not sure how they got our home address, but one of them needed advice.”
“Our volunteer work. Right.” Like I was going to believe that.
“Yeah, maybe it’s hard for to you to believe, because you can’t see the real me right now, but that’s what we do.” He climbed the steps, eyeing me as he passed by.
Before he made it to the patio door, not satisfied with his answer, I grabbed his wrist. It was the first time I’d touched him on purpose, and I immediately regretted it.
He stopped, his gaze dropping to my hand then lifting to my face. His eyes held no anger but flickered with a distant and even hopeful look.
Flooded with confusing thoughts, I released him and turned away.
He came up behind me and spoke low over my shoulder. “I don’t cheat on you.”
CHAPTER 8
OKAY, SO MAYBE he wasn’t cheating. But why could he have girls over the house, and I couldn’t talk to Roland on the phone?
Arms crossed and fists clenched, I paced the bedroom floor. The smell of burnt hot dogs wafted through the room. A housefly buzzed against the screen, and the curtains hung like limp flowers in the still air.
What kind of a relationship did we have? Whatever it had been, it couldn’t remain this way. If my memory never returned and I was stuck with him, he would have to change.
I stopped by the dresser mirror. Sad green eyes gazed back at me. I was a married woman. Sigh. Marriage was a sacrament, after all, a sacred institution. I was his and he was mine. Forever. For the love of God, I would try to make it work. I folded my arms and paced around the bed, toward the window.
Forever his. How would Jarret feel about abstinence? Saints Cecelia and Valerian practiced abstinence in their marriage.
Jarret married and abstaining? Maybe he would go along with it for a little while. Wait! Since I couldn’t remember getting married, could I get an annulment? What were the rules for that?
Rules. Maybe I should set some rules for Jarret. And if our relationship mattered to him, he’d follow them. I stopped pacing. Jarret following someone else’s rules... Ha! That would be the day. He set the rules. Everyone else had to follow them.
I tensed with determination. That was about to change.
I yanked open the bedroom door. The weights clanked on the other side of the house. Jarret grunted. I stomped to the weight room and stepped into the doorway.
There he lay on a bench, sweaty and shirtless, pressing weights with his legs. When he saw me, he let the weights clang down and sat up.
“What’s up, babe?”
The sweat on his collarbone reflected light from the window, drawing my attention to his muscular but not overly bulging physique. I’d never cared for the bulky powerlifter look, but his trim, defined biceps and triceps, deltoids and pecs snagged my gaze and wouldn’t let go.
Taking a breath, I turned to the doorframe. “Would you please put a shirt on? We have to talk. And my name’s Caitlyn, not babe.”
I sat on the couch in the living room and waited for him to join me. A moment later, he sauntered from the weight room to the kitchen. Dressed now.
“Want something to drink?” He opened the refrigerator.
“No. I want to set some rules.” I made sure to sound firm, determined.
He grabbed a bottled drink and came over, his lips curling up into a crooked grin. “You want to set some rules, huh?” He took a swig of the red drink and wiped hi
s mouth with his arm. Then he sat across from me, slouching on the loveseat.
“That’s right. I don’t need you to tell me about the girls, but I do expect—”
“I was helping them.” He came across cool and collected, as though nothing bothered him. “It’s what we do.”
I put up a hand. “I don’t want to know. And I don’t need to know how things were between us. I’m beginning to think you controlled everything, and maybe I was your naive little slave girl.”
He huffed and gave an eye-roll. “Like that would ever happen.”
I continued. “I don’t know. And I don’t care. What’s done is done. But since we are married—Yes, I believe you now—and since there’s nothing I can do about it, I’m going to tell you how I want things to be.”
He smirked again, then frowned and looked away. “Lay it on me.”
“When I’m not here, no girls in the house. And, unless it’s work related or I’m standing right there, I don’t want you talking to girls on the phone. You said you don’t cheat, fine. But I don’t want the slightest temptation in your way. Okay?”
He didn’t look at me. His mouth stretched out, but I couldn’t decide if it was a smile or a grimace. “Okay, Caitlyn. And let me tell you what I want.”
As his brown eyes turned on me, I felt my resolve melting. What would he want? I was his wife, after all.
He leaned forward and set his drink on the coffee table. Then he snatched a pen, scribbled something on the corner of a page of junk mail, ripped the corner off, and handed it to me. “I want you to stop thinking of me like I’m sixteen years old. I’m not the same. If I was, you wouldn’t have married me. Why don’t you give me a chance?”
“What’s this?” I read the scrap. He’d written the name Kelly and a phone number.
“Call her. Talk to her. Maybe she can help you understand a few things.” He stared through sullen eyes. “Deal?”
I shrugged. Kelly? Why should I call Kelly? He probably told Kelly what he wanted her to say.
I spent the rest of the day avoiding him. When he sat in the living room watching baseball, I hung out in the bedroom. I stuffed the scrap of paper he’d given me between the jewelry box and a candle. Then I rearranged my side of the closet, organizing the dresses, shirts, and skirts according to whether I recognized them or not. I put all my clothing on one end of the closet rod and the rest on the other. As I moved the unfamiliar dresses and skirts, a few of them caught my eye. The colors, the styles... they were simply perfect, so I put them in the middle, separating them from the clothes I couldn’t imagine having selected for myself.
None of the shoes looked familiar. But then again, the ones I remembered wearing were old and worn. If it was three years later than I remembered, I had probably thrown them out.
On the top shelf of my side of the closet, I found a big plastic container of my things. My heart stirred as I pulled it from the shelf and carried it to the bed. Tears welled in my eyes as I pored over old photo albums and mementos. A folder held the artwork I had saved from grade school. It pained me to flip through the pictures; my artwork was atrocious in those early years. Nothing like the miniatures I’d learned to paint in high school. I unfolded my grandmother’s handkerchiefs, finding inside clay figures made by my sisters and brothers. My sister Priscilla had made a ladybug. My youngest brother Andrew made a super hero, one with a cape, maybe Batman or Superman.
The ballerina doily my mother had made for me sat folded on a little box. As I lifted the doily, a scraping sound came from outside. I set the doily down, went to the window, and pushed back the curtain.
Jarret hovered over the grill, his arm muscles flexing as he scraped it clean. He would probably be outside for a while. I could explore the rest of the house.
Leaving the mementos and the box on the bed, I headed for the kitchen. I’d gone through a few cupboards already, so I cracked open one I hadn’t checked. A cute, cat-shaped tin of herbal teabags sat on the lowest shelf. I loved brewed iced tea. Searching a few cabinets, I found a pan and put some water on to boil.
As the water heated, I dug through drawers. The one under the phone was a mess: an actual phone book, loose papers, and appointment books on one side; pens, pencils, and miscellaneous junk on the other. I pulled out the appointment books and mindlessly reached into a cupboard for a coffee mug.
With my hand on the handle of a mug, I froze. I hadn’t checked that cupboard before, yet I knew the mugs were there. My heart skipped a beat. I wanted to tell someone.
Jarret stood out on the deck, his back to me, still scraping away at the grill. I didn’t want to tell him. He might get too hopeful. Or he’d get upset, wondering why I remembered where we kept the mugs and not something about him.
I set the mug on the countertop and flipped open an appointment book. A business card fell out, landing face down. Someone had made three vague entries on the month of January: “Shelby 7:00,” “Mr. Carr 3:30,” and “Call Dee.” And that was it. It wasn’t my handwriting, so it must’ve been Jarret’s book. He obviously wasn’t big on writing down his appointments.
My attention shifted to the business card. Flipping it over, my heart lifted with a mix of amusement and joy. Caitlyn West, Private Investigator, Wright Investigators. So, that’s why Jarret laughed when I’d said I could have my own cards made up. I had!
Still smiling, I opened the next appointment book and found notes scribbled on every page. All of it in my handwriting! How strange to see my own handwriting and not remember writing any of it. Notes filled the pages from January to May. Was it May? It felt like summer. Of course, we were in North Carolina. It had to be warmer here than in South Dakota.
I flipped through the book. When I reached the last filled-out week, my heart stopped. On a Wednesday was the note: A-Z Women’s Choice Clinic 2:00 p.m.
Women’s Choice? An abortion provider.
I couldn’t tear my gaze from the words. Why would I have an appointment with an abortion provider?
Jarret no longer scraped the grill. He squatted and wiped the shelf under it.
Was I pregnant? I tried to find something in the other entries that might make sense of things. There were names, times, and addresses but nothing detailed. Then toward the end of March, I found Dr. Stillman 10:15 a.m.
If only I had my cell phone, I could look up the doctor. Wait! Hadn’t I seen— I tore open the drawer and grabbed the phone book. Flipping through the yellow pages, I found the physicians... the OB/GYNs... Dr. Henry Stillman.
I gasped, my body tingling with shock. I’d had an appointment with an obstetrician.
The sliding screen door opened. My heart jumped into my throat.
Jarret came inside. “Something wrong?”
I shut my mouth and shook my head, the tingling sensation spreading.
He went to the sink and cranked the water on, then washed his hands and forearms. “Your water’s boiling.”
“What?”
“On the stove.”
“Oh.” Stepping to the stove, I shut off the burner, then I stared through unblinking eyes as the bubbles died down in the water. Was I pregnant? I didn’t feel pregnant, and I didn’t have much of a belly. I did, however, often feel nauseous. Maybe it wasn’t because of Jarret.
Why would I have an appointment scheduled with an abortionist? The hairs on the back of my neck stood as my mind turned over the sickening thought, and a shudder replaced the tingling sensation. Rather than pass through me, the shudder turned into trembling, my body shaking the way it did in the cold.
Leaning against the counter near the stove, Jarret stared at me while drying his arms on the clean kitchen towel. “You cold? Making tea to warm up?” He slid the cat-shaped tin toward me.
“What?”
“Something wrong?”
Unable to process his question as my own questions weaved through my mind, I stared back.
“Want me to make it?” He opened the tin and dropped four teabags into the water.
“Am I...” Heart pounding against my ribs, I cleared my throat and tried again to get the question out. “Am I pregnant?”
He gave a little smile and glanced at my belly. “Yeah.”
A rush of feelings mingled inside me: relief, excitement, fear, anxiety. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know.” He frowned and shifted his position in an agitated way, rubbing one arm and leaning against the counter again. “You don’t seem to like me too much, so I didn’t know how you’d take it. Thought it might be best for you to get comfortable with me before you find out about him. Her. Whatever.” He reached out and touched my arm, sending a strange, unwelcome sensation through me. Then his hand traveled down my arm, but I pulled away before he touched my hand. He looked away, in the direction of my appointment book.
“I guess I should’ve figured, you know, with my nausea and strange cravings, but—” I leaned past him and closed my appointment book. “Was I happy about the news?”
“Of course.” He reached for me again but then shoved his hands into the front pockets of his denim shorts.
“Were you?”
“Happy?” His face flinched with a look that flickered from hurt to something else, something wishful maybe, expectant. “Yeah. Heck, yeah.” He must’ve lost control of himself; his hands flew out of his pockets and latched onto my arms. “Gosh, Caitlyn, I love you. I want us to have a baby.”
Backing away, I tried to make sense of the appointment with the abortionist and the unrestrained love in his eyes.
“Don’t be upset about it. You’re going to get your memory back. It’s gonna be okay.”
“Were we happy?”
A look of pain shot through his eyes, and he shook his head, but he said, “Yes.”
CHAPTER 9
MONDAY CAME AND I thought Jarret might go to work.
He didn’t. He spent an hour of the early morning on the back deck, talking on the phone. Talking to people at his workplace or mine? I’d heard my name a couple of times, his voice traveling through the open bedroom window, but I hadn’t caught anything else. After a while, I heard him banging around in the kitchen. Then the savory aroma of fried food and fresh coffee wafted through the window, so I decided to get up and venture out.
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