Anyone but Him

by Theresa Linden

  After a quiet breakfast of French toast and decaf coffee, I excused myself to the bedroom, took a long shower, and decided to wear a dark-green flowered sundress.

  I stuffed my arms into the sleeves, ready to pull the dress over my head, but then stopped. Tossing the dress onto the bed, I ran to the dresser mirror and turned sideways. Excitement zipped through me as I ran my hand over my abdomen.

  Oh! My belly did protrude a bit. Funny, I hadn’t noticed the little bump sooner. Was a living, growing person really floating around in there?

  A burst of motherly love and joy warmed my heart. A baby. I caressed my baby bump, desiring to communicate love to the little one hidden inside. How had I failed to realize it was there? Safe within me and yet not me, an entirely different person, made and loved by God, infinitely loved by Him.

  As I dressed, I thought of all the shouting, fighting, and worrying I had been doing lately. Had the baby sensed it and worried too?

  “I’m sorry, my little one.” I rubbed my belly. “No matter what that father of yours says or does, I am not getting angry again. You will have peace and joy from now on.”

  With that resolution, I decided to spend the day avoiding Jarret. I wanted time to organize my thoughts. Nothing made sense. No girl sets an appointment with an abortionist unless she is upset about her pregnancy, about her life. How could I ever have planned to get rid of my tiny baby? I must’ve been so miserable that I couldn’t think straight. Did my emotional state have something to do with my memory loss? Was my life so horrible that I couldn’t think about it anymore? Maybe I had been running away when I got the bump on my head. Maybe... with the amnesia, God had given me a second chance at life—my life, the baby’s life.

  I scanned the closet, wanting something to organize, but I had already sorted my side. I’d made the bed. The dresser was already neat. The floor vacuumed. Discovering that the master bathroom needed cleaning, I opened the little window over the toilet and set to work. I gave half a thought to climbing out the window, but it was narrow and high, and trying to escape would make me feel anxious. The baby didn’t need that anxiety. Alone in the bathroom, I could find peace.

  After scrubbing and shining every possible surface, I decided to organize the bathroom closet. Little bath soaps, salts, and colorful oil balls filled one shelf. My sisters would have a blast with them. The towels, all soft and new in pretty blue and aqua colors, smelled so fresh I could sniff them all day. But the closet was already in order, so after a thorough investigation, I closed it and left the bathroom.

  As I stepped through the doorway and into the bedroom, my relaxed mood ended and every muscle in my body tensed.

  Jarret stood by the bedroom window, gazing outside. He turned. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Hoping to stave off the tension, I took a deep breath.

  “You’ve been in here all day.” He walked to the foot of the bed.

  “Have I? What time is it?” I glanced at the clock on the dresser. It was half-past four. “I was just cleaning.”

  “Oh.” His gaze darted around the room as if he had something to say.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “I don’t like you breathing cleaning fumes.” He sounded bossy, looked bossy. His jaw even twitched.

  Who did he think he— Relax. He can say whatever he wants. It doesn’t matter. “Okay.”

  “The baby.”

  The baby? He was worried about the baby? My heart tingled and a little weight lifted from it. “I only used baking soda and vinegar.”

  He nodded, satisfied. “That’s good.” His gaze went to the open bedroom door, his steps soon following. Then he stopped. “Oh, hey.” He faced me and leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. “I don’t know what you were gonna do with the chicken. But it’s thawed now, so I gotta do something with it today. Oh, and Mike’s coming over.”

  “Mike? Why?”

  “He called to ask about you. I said he could come over.”

  “Is he bringing anyone? A wife?”

  “No, he’s not married.”

  “Does he have a girlfriend?”

  “Uh...” Jarret squinted, thinking. “I don’t know. Yeah, I guess he does. He talks like he does, but I’ve never met her. He didn’t say anything about bringing anyone. I think he wants to see you, make sure you’re all right.” Pushing off the doorframe, he turned to leave but stopped again. “Hey, uh, think you could help me with the chicken? I don’t really know how to cook.”

  “All those breakfasts you’ve been making...?”

  “Yeah, eggs and cooking on the grill...” He shook his head and shrugged, looking a bit embarrassed. “...that’s the extent of my skill.”

  A smile forced its way to my face. He smiled back, his eyes holding more emotion than I could handle. So, I left the room ahead of him.

  I went as far as the kitchen island and rested my arms on the countertop. “What are you planning to make?”

  “Uh, chicken.” He walked around the island and set the package of raw chicken breasts between us.

  I tried not to laugh. “How are you going to cook it? What are you going to have with it?”

  “I don’t know. What do you want?”

  “Well, what do you like? What ingredients do you have?”

  He opened the pantry next to the refrigerator and stepped back so I could see. “What do you need?”

  I wanted to keep my distance and stay mad at him for what he must have put me through, but he seemed so helpless. As the oldest child in a big family, I had grown accustomed to helping my younger brothers and sisters. Sometimes I’d felt like a second mother. I loved that feeling, being needed. The more someone needed me, the more it warmed my heart.

  Coming around the counter, I opened a low cabinet to get my favorite cookbook.

  “You know where the cookbooks are?” He sounded shocked, hopeful.

  “I’ve been snooping around,” I said, though I hadn’t really checked this cabinet yet. Another thing I just knew. “Do we have spinach?”

  “Boy, do we.”

  “Wow, really?” I flipped pages in the cookbook.

  “You’ve been on a spinach kick. You sent me shopping for some last week, so we’ve got canned, fresh, low sodium. Whatever you want.”

  “Perfect.” I smiled. “Let’s make Chicken Florentine.”

  I had Jarret put a pan of water on the stove for the pasta and then make salads. Next, I had him pound out the chicken and cut it into strips, while I got out salt and pepper and prepared a dish of flour for dredging. Then I had him wash and cut the spinach, but his first cuts were too small, so I took the knife from him and pushed into his space.

  “Like this.” I proceeded to show him how I wanted it cut, but he only stared at my face. “Are you paying attention?” My cheeks warmed under his gaze.

  “Yeah, I got it,” he said, without having even glanced at the spinach. He did move closer though, so that I now felt his body heat.

  “Good.” Woozy from the closeness, I set the knife on the cutting board, rather than hand it to him, and went to the stove to flip the chicken. “So, why don’t we have sweet Southern accents like Bobby and Mike and the checkout lady at the grocery store?”

  “We haven’t been here that long?”

  “How long does it take fo’ a gal ta pick up a Southun drawl?” I batted my eyelashes and smiled, a bit shocked at myself for such flirtatiousness.

  “You’d make a fine Southun belle, baby, but it ain’t gonna happen in a yea’.” He brought the cutting board to the kitchen island and leaned on the counter, his long-lashed, brown eyes on me.

  My cheeks burned. He stood so close, his passionate gaze drawing me in. The rough kiss he’d given me yesterday flashed into my mind. I suddenly felt as helpless as Scarlett in the presence of Ashley Wilkes.

  “Ma’am,” he said in a low voice, his gaze flitting around my face, “what can I do fo yuh now?”

  My heart flipped like a fish out of water. My mind went blank.
Was it his dark chocolate eyes, his manly cologne, or the seductive tone of his voice? I opened my mouth to reply, with no idea what to say.

  His attention went to my mouth. His lips parted. He leaned and—

  The doorbell rang, and I breathed.

  Jarret straightened and spun his face to the front door. “It’s Mike. I’ll get it.” He crossed the living room, yanked open the door, and greeted Mike with a loud, “Hello.” Mike shouted his own greeting back, still standing outside.

  I took a deep breath, my heart still hammering in my chest, and forced my attention back to dinner preparations. I got out the cooking wine and tossed a chunk of butter into the skillet for the sauce. Mike’s interruption couldn’t have come at a better time. I would’ve regretted kissing Jarret willingly, on impulse, an act of passion with no underlying love. It might have affected my ability to think clearly, and I really needed to understand why I married this man.

  My hand lifted to my lips. Was I really going to let him kiss me?

  “We missed you at work today.” Mike stepped inside and slapped Jarret on the back. “You are leading the field work, after all. Nobody else can count the fingers on their hands independently.”

  The butter sizzled. I scraped diced garlic and onions into the skillet. Did we have a second skillet for the spinach? I flung open the pan cabinet.

  “I called. I was on the phone with Chuck for an hour,” Jarret said defensively. “Didn’t he get things together?”

  The garlic and onions released their heavy aroma. I tossed butter into the second skillet, added the spinach, and turned up the heat. How much wine for the sauce? I checked the recipe, pushed the onions with a spatula, and added the wine.

  “Oh, I suppose, but not like you do. There is a certain organization to your methods that others seem to lack. You are coming in tomorrow, I hope and pray.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know.” Jarret led Mike toward the kitchen.

  “Well, the boss was none too pleased with your absence. And I hear you have another day off scheduled. You are aware of the deadlines and our future relocation.”

  They neared the kitchen island. I grabbed the cream from the refrigerator, checked the recipe, and pushed the spinach around in the skillet.

  “How yuh doing, Caitlyn? You’re looking good,” Mike said as he passed, his pale gaze lingering on me.

  “Just fine, sir,” I said in my best Southern drawl. “Dinnuh will be served right shortly.”

  Mike grinned and exchanged glances with Jarret.

  Plain faced, Jarret shrugged, giving the impression he didn’t understand Mike’s surprise at my new accent. He stepped into the kitchen, grabbed the salads and the dressings, and carried them to the table.

  “Does your head still ache?” Mike sat at the head of the table and smoothed his hair back.

  “No, sir. My headache’s done gone.” I touched the bump on my head. “Still a little sore, but only if I touch it.”

  “Have any of your memories returned?”

  Should I tell him about the brief memories, the flashback of dropping salsa and applesauce, the recollection of where we kept the mugs and cookbooks? “No, sir, not a thing.” It wasn’t a lie, really, since they weren’t full-fledged memories.

  Jarret drained the pasta into the sink, turning his head as the steam billowed up. He scooped it onto plates, then lined up the plates by me so I could add chicken and spinach.

  “Well, y’all remember, you may get some memories back that don’t quite make sense. It is possible t’experience disjointed memories. Perhaps, even, you may link faces or impressions to experiences in a way that does not reflect the reality.”

  Jarret slid a plate of Chicken Florentine to Mike. “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, I mean, as she recalls experiences there, ah, may be some, well, some inaccuracies. Don’t let it trouble you. It’s all part of the healing process. I really want you to let me know once it happens, if it happens.”

  “I would love to have my memory back,” I drawled as I joined them at the table, taking the seat next to Jarret.

  “I’m gonna take you around,” Jarret said with a frown. “When you’re ready, I want to take you places we’ve been. Maybe it’ll help.”

  “I’ve been ready.” I batted my eyes, forcing back feelings of annoyance and replacing them with the docile disposition of a sweet Southern belle.

  “You’re not ready. You can’t even accept that you’re my wife.”

  I do accept it. I couldn’t get myself to say it aloud, so I held his gaze for an uncomfortable moment.

  “We are nearing the deadline, Jarret.”

  When Mike spoke and took the attention off me, my body relaxed and I took my first bite of the Chicken Florentine. It was delicious.

  Jarret stared at me for a moment, instead of looking at Mike, who seemed to be waiting for a reply. Then Jarret leaned toward me and whispered, “You eat without praying now?”

  I gasped and stopped chewing. I hadn’t prayed. I always prayed before I ate, even in restaurants. Ever since I could talk, I prayed. I prayed even if I had to pray in my mind because I was with someone who didn’t pray.

  I swallowed the food in my mouth, my eyes locked on Jarret’s.

  He gave the hint of a grin, put his hand to his forehead, and said, “Let’s thank Our Lord for what we got.” Then he made the Sign of the Cross and muttered the Prayer Before Meals all by himself. Mike said, “Amen, let’s eat,” rubbing his hands together. Jarret picked up his fork.

  “About that deadline,” Mike said with his mouth full. “You know we have the entire north area and the formal garden to investigate.”

  “I told Chuck to—” Throwing an irritated glance to the ceiling, Jarret shook his head and chewed. “Well, how many students showed up today?”

  “Same as ever. Chuck had them working in teams, one team comparing the historic and current maps of the site, another going over the evidence for the paths around the grounds, another organizing and categorizing the artifacts recovered thus far.”

  “No, no, no. They need to get to that north section—”

  “Artifacts?” They both looked at me when I spoke. “What artifacts have y’all found?”

  “We’ve unearthed iron tools, ceramic pots and shards, even a bronze bowl,” Mike said.

  “And a few pieces of jewelry.” Jarret set his fork down and gazed into my eyes, communicating pride of accomplishment but also love for me, maybe appreciating that I had taken an interest.

  I felt the warmth of a blush again and my heart convicted me. There was more to him than I realized. I ought to give him a chance.

  “It’s the site of an 18th century plantation,” Jarret said. “Only parts of the structures remain. We’re there to collect artifacts and to reconstruct and retain the history before it’s lost with the new construction.”

  “Since you’ve found artifacts and parts of a historical building,” I said, having to force myself to maintain eye contact with him, “won’t that stop the new construction?”

  Mike and Jarret looked at each other.

  Jarret shook his head. “Not usually. It’s—”

  A cell phone blared out the first few bars of the song “Calling Dr. Love.” Mike peeked at his phone then pushed out his chair. He stepped into the living room before answering it.

  Jarret must’ve lost his train of thought. He shoved a forkful of food into his mouth and glanced from his plate to me every other second as he chewed.

  I felt as uncomfortable as a schoolgirl on a blind date. “So, um, I noticed we don’t have any barstools.” I glanced over my shoulder at the kitchen island.

  “No.” He took another bite and chewed, still staring.

  “And I was wondering... This table seems awfully large for the breakfast nook or dinette or whatever you call this. Wouldn’t it fit better in the dining room?”

  He nodded as he chewed but appeared entirely disinterested in the subject. Couldn’t he add anything to the conver
sation? Or couldn’t he offer an explanation for the strange arrangement?

  He looked away. Staring at Mike now?

  I looked too. Mike sat hunched on the arm of the loveseat, his back to us. Shielding his mouth with his hand, he mumbled into the phone. Then he flung his arm out, gesturing widely, and raised his voice in a defensive tone. Maybe he was fighting with his girlfriend.

  It was none of my business, so I returned my attention to Jarret. “What about a little table?” I said.

  Jarret looked at me.

  “Maybe one of those tall tables with the tall chairs. Don’t you think that would work better in here? Did we ever think of getting one? I mean, doesn’t it look a little awkward the way it is?”

  He grinned but the look in his eyes said I’d insulted his manhood. “I’m not my father. I don’t have endless cash at my disposal. It never bothered you before.”

  “I’m sorry.” Heat assailed me and I averted my gaze. I hadn’t meant to belittle him. “I was just wondering. I didn’t mean—”

  “Pardon the interruption.” Mike returned to the head of the table. “Now, what were we discussing?”

  I elected to drop out of the conversation and resigned myself to smiling politely at appropriate times. Jarret and Mike dwelled on work. After dinner, I offered a selection of candy bars for dessert and set myself to washing dishes.

  “I’ve got dirty dishes in the den,” Jarret said and pushed out his chair, but then the landline phone rang.

  I could take one step and reach it, but the warning in Jarret’s eye told me I wasn’t allowed. He took the call in the living room.

  Assuming “den” meant the weight room, I went to retrieve the dishes. The den was a man cave. A monstrous black weight-set loomed before me, standing seven feet tall and stretching out with benches and weights from the door to the window, taking up most of the little room. Against the wall, sat a seven-drawer computer desk. It was cluttered with cups, little flash drives, papers, and the camera I’d found a few days earlier.