"That's right, baby. You moved in with me around the time we got engaged, and we lived here together until just before Ryan joined us."
She nods. I take in a quiet breath to dispel my anxiety. It doesn't work.
The doors part into the foyer. The center table presents us with a welcoming bouquet of cream roses and greenery, and I'm thrown back a few years. This is one of Gail's trademark arrangements. She's gone all out, I marvel. Krissy is still in the elevator, her eyes wide and wary.
"Come along, Krissy. You wanted this, remember?" I extend my hand toward her, and after a beat she takes it, and follows me into the great room. A silent moment passes, and I release her, crossing my arms patiently. "Poke around. Let me know if anything looks familiar."
She takes her time. I'm reminded of this spring when we took Ryan to the San Diego zoo. I'd just awarded a grant to a behavioral science group at UCSD, which helped to fund the addition of a small wild cat from Asia, and I brought Krissy and Ryan to watch its release into the new enclosure. To see the tiny feline cautiously explore every corner, every rock, every inch of groundcover, I'm reminded by the way Krissy is now peering around corners and running her fingers along textures and over objects. She's like the cat, exploring the unfamiliar, but her fear isn't that of wary prey, at least I hope not. I think she's afraid something will trigger a memory, in the same way as before. It can't possibly be an experience to look forward to.
My gut clenches painfully when her fingers test the door handle to what was once our playroom. She pushes it tentatively open and steps into the darkness. I'm not far behind, the light from the hallway casting our shadows over unfamiliar furniture. I fumble for the light switch.
The dimmer is the same, a touch panel that raises the ambient lighting with subtlety. Before us stands a wraparound sofa, a central ottoman, a smattering of chairs and a number of shelves and display cases that have been brought from other rooms as fillers for this one. Books and art pieces, some familiar and some not, litter the surfaces. The walls are a warm cream, like the roses in the foyer. The stereo is gone, replaced by a towering potted palm. I sneak a glance near the crown molding, and there isn't a trace of the former stain. If I didn't know this room so… intimately, I'd have never recognized it.
Except for the scent of polished wood and citrus. I know that scent well. My pulse ignites, whether by sensory association or my fear that she'll make the same connection, I have no idea. The light seems suddenly brighter, and I know my pupils are dilating.
Krissy crosses decidedly to the far wall, the fastest I've seen her move since we left the car, to the exact place where the wooden cross was, and places her hand against the wall. I'm rooted to the spot. My feet are lead weights; I have to force myself to move closer to her, to be present, to at least appear open and supportive, when all I'd rather do is curl into a ball and pretend I'm home and everything is as it should be. I don't know how, but I see it coming, and this time I'm there where she falls.
"Krissy! Oh God, baby. I'm here, I'm here." Of course she'd have an episode in here. I might as well have left it as it was, for all the good this visit has done. She's probably just seen everything, seen me like that… seen the worst I've done to her. I've dropped to the floor, pulling her into my lap, cradling her as she blinks drowsily.
"Red, red…" she mumbles.
Oh dear God no. "You're safe, baby. I'm here, I'm here." My hand caresses her cheek. I don't know why I didn't think to bring backup, Gail perhaps, or Flynn… either could have been a salve to what is likely going to be a terrifying next few minutes for her. How could I have been so stupid? She's still blinking, but her focus is returning, and she squirms a bit in my hold. I loosen my arms around her, not wanting her to feel trapped, but afraid she'll hurt herself in this weakened, disoriented state. My voice is low, as gentle as I can manage. "Did you remember something, Krissy?"
She nods. "The room… it was red. The walls. And there was wood. Lots of wood, and leather, and singing… and you, you had feathers… and you wore faded jeans and you looked really, really mad…"
Her face crinkles, and to my overwhelming surprise, she turns into my chest, sobbing. She's obviously frightened of what she saw, but not of me. But why? My confusion may actually rival hers, for the moment. Flynn told her to try to recall as many details as possible after an episode, no matter how seemingly insignificant. I suddenly realize I'm doing nothing to comfort her, and I tighten my arms around her, rocking gently.
I don't know what to say, how to soothe her, but whatever I decide to tell her, I must not lie. By omission is forgivable, but I must not tell an untruth, especially not to Krissy. But where the fuck do I begin? "Yes, baby. This room's walls were red once," I tell her softly. "And there was a stereo, and wood furniture. And I still have those ripped jeans; you love those old things…" I trail off. I don't know what else there is. Those memories aren't from one specific time, and not one of them, except for her misinterpretation of my expression, sets me in a bad light. Fortune appears to be on my side. "I wasn't mad at you. I promise." And it's the truth; even the two times I got carried away, I was never angry. Frustrated and impassioned, yes, but never angry. Not with my Krissy.
"Do you want to go home now?" I ask. Her tears have receded to shuddering sniffles, and she nods into my shirt. I press a kiss to her forehead, and she sighs. "Talk to me, baby. Tell me what frightened you." I nearly regret asking. You need to be open and supportive, King, I chide myself.
She sniffles again. "It wasn't this fragmented before… the other times," she begins. I wrench a handkerchief from my back pocket and brush the tears from her cheeks as she continues, brokenly. "It was dark, and your face… it was so angry. I thought I'd done something to upset you. Everything else came in flashes, a wooden bench, and red, all around was red…"
"Hush baby, it's all right. I'm here. There's nothing to be afraid of."
"It's different now," she observes.
"Yes, it is." I wait, but she's fallen silent. "Home, now?"
She nods. I lift her as I stand, and she curls into me. She's silent until I have to set her down to press the call button for the elevator. "I'm sorry about the other night," she offers.
"Why? You did nothing wrong." I must look as incredulous as I think I do, because she reaches up to touch my face. I lean my cheek into her hand, placing my hand over hers to hold her to me. "I should have given you what you wanted."
The elevator dings and we step inside, silent again.
"I'm… glad you stopped me," she says softly.
I glance down at her, and her watery eyes once again bore into my soul. "I don't quite know what to say. That's rare for me," I admit.
"That's okay…" she shakes her head, looking down. "I just don't know what to do with myself sometimes, and these feelings… they're new to me. I'm not sure how to process them. I'm sure they're probably right, but you were right to stop me. It wasn't the right time; I would have felt guilty afterward. That's not how I envisioned my first time to be. I'm sorry… you've been so patient…"
"Oh, Krissy…" I can't help myself, and she's swiftly in my arms again, pulled close to my chest, right where she belongs. "I promise you… when we're both ready, it will be very, very special." And perhaps, I can begin to make up for the selfish manner in which I handled our relations early on. If my Krissy were here, I hope she would be proud of the man I'm trying to be.
~oOo~
I'm angry again after just a few hours, but I'm not writing it down. Krissy went to bed early after a quick conversation with my mother. She didn't touch her supper, to my great disappointment, and there's been a manner of tiptoeing around one another, the source of which I can't seem to isolate. Krissy doesn't deserve this. Perhaps I do, but she doesn't. She didn't deserve to have those years taken from her. My daughter... God rest her precious soul... didn't deserve to have her life stolen from her, before she'd even begun to live. Yes, I'm fucking pissed again. I thought we'd bonded a little over her experience, and while sh
e hasn't quite avoided me, she hasn't been as eager to spend time together as before. It's about all I can manage to keep from being angry around her. So I'm supposed to write down my feelings, get them out on paper, so I won't take them out on anyone else. Fucking Flynn, thinks he knows best. He's not right this time. This isn't helping.
Another week passes, another two sessions, and more phone calls than I'd care to count. A plethora of angry words, scratched so hard into the leather-bound notebook that a few pages are torn and bleeding ink. It's all I can do to be tender and understanding with Krissy, who is going about her recovery, enjoying our son, and trying to get to know what's left of me. She's started to relax around me again, I think, but there's a wall between us. She's trying... so perhaps the wall is entirely of my own design. I'm no closer to figuring out how to tear it down without frightening her away.
"When were you going to tell me?"
I look up from my computer screen. How long she's been standing there watching me, I'm not sure. Her forearms are crossed, the long sleeves covering fading scars on her no-longer-bound arm. She's positively livid, and doing nothing to cover her displeasure. Krissy's always been so beautiful when she's angry with me.
"Tell you what, love?" I really have no specific idea why she's angry, but the boulders of acid in the pit of my stomach drive me to believe it has something to do with what she remembered in the playroom.
"That Jose called? Four times? Starting three weeks ago?"
Oh. I close my eyes with relief. "That."
"What, is there something else you're not telling me?"
"Of course not, love," I rise and come around the desk toward her. She takes a step back, and I stop. "Kate wasn't supposed to tell you yet," I distract.
"Kate? She knew too?" Krissy rolls her eyes. "Of course. Who else is keeping things from me?"
"No one, baby. I..."
"So it's just you and Kate, running the show. She's supposed to be my best friend, Edward. You're not supposed to recruit her to go behind my back. You're also not supposed to filter my calls. Why didn't you tell me?"
"Concern for your recovery?" My grip is slipping. I can't hold on much longer. "I don't know... I'm a jealous man, Krissy. Is that what you want to hear?"
She gasps. "That's what this is? Jealousy? You're afraid that a guy who is like a brother to me, whose father is best friends with mine, is going to steal the spotlight? What reason would I have to marry you if I'd had feelings for him? I don't know what's happened in the last three years, but I seriously doubt I became that kind of person," she says with disgust. "Jose holds no attraction for me. Got it?"
"Yeah, I got it." I'm mad. And it's building. Keep the sentences short, King. Hold the fuck on. She's not herself.
She nods. "Then if you'll excuse me, I'm going to drive down to Portland today to see the exhibit he's just opened. I'll be back by dinnertime."
"What? You'll do no such thing."
She scoffs, eyes widening. "You're kidding, right?"
"I most certainly am not. You're barely recovered, Krissy." Oh, how to salvage this.
"Exactly, I'm recovered. I'm off all but just the one medication, I'll be just fine for one day." She rolls her eyes again. "Oh why am I justifying this to you? I'm going." She turns on her heel.
"Stop right there," my voice thunders, eerily quiet. I've let go. I must reshape the situation before she bends it to her will and bad things come of it. She freezes, but doesn't turn. "You're not driving yourself anywhere, much less to Portland. You know what happens when your memory tries to come back. And even if that weren't of my utmost concern, the roads are wet from all the rain. I won't have you risking your life out there just to prove a point. That's final."
She turns slowly. The radiating anger in her eyes in palpable. I should know, I'm radiating an unhealthy dose of my own. "Excuse me?" she whispers.
"You heard me."
"I wish I hadn't. Was I aware of this before?"
"Aware of what?"
"That you're a complete and utter control freak?" Her words drip with venom.
The label makes me laugh suddenly. "Baby, when you're mine, you do as you're told." Oops. The words are out, and my subconscious is reaching for them, shouting, come back!
She inhales sharply. "I am not your property."
"No, that's not what I meant..."
"How the hell was I okay with this? I may not be worldly but I wouldn't have chained myself to someone so disrespectful, who doesn't support who I am and the friends I keep, someone so..."
"Domineering?" I suggest, my own anger unleashed. I've had enough of this. If she wants to throw names, I have a few of my own to add. "Or perhaps we should go with overbearing, difficult, cantankerous, bossy, frustrating, despotic, moody, stubborn, cross... there's a thesaurus worth of adjectives you've used on me over the last three years, it's hard to keep track."
Her exhale is quick and disbelieving. I've stumped her again. My verbal victory is short lived, however. "You're crazy."
"Baby, you have no idea." Our eyes lock, neither of us budging. "Taylor!" I shout.
"Sir?" He must have been within earshot for much of that. I really don't care.
"Mrs. King would like to go to Portland today. I'd like you to drive her. Take Sawyer with you. Please return her before dark, and make sure she wears a jacket." I go back to my desk, exhausted from the fight, and suppressing the wave of nausea from my concession.
"Very good, Sir. Ma'am?"
Krissy is still frozen. I don't look at her, but I can see her by periphery. I barely see the figures on the screen. They could be characters in Chinese for all I care. "Go, Krissy. It's what you wanted."
"Thank you, Taylor. Let me just say goodbye to Ryan first."
Every sound over the next several minutes vibrated in surround stereo through my skull. The hard footsteps of her leather boots, Ryan's disgruntled squeal at his mother's departure, the revving of the Q7's engine as it powers up the drive and out of earshot. All that's left are the plinks of drizzle on the glass wall behind me.
What the fuck just happened?
The pen in my hand snaps, and I drop it into the trash. I wasn't aware I'd picked it up, much less that I was gripping it to death. I run to the half bath to scrub the blue-black ink from my palm. What the fuck was that? We hadn't had a fight like that in over a year, and that was back when she was in her right mind. I could have just ruined everything in one fell swoop. And worse, I risked driving her into the arms of the photographer. In recent times, I've become more confident that her feelings for him are purely familial and platonic at best, but as she doesn't even recall the nightclub assault incident, I'm not sure her judgment is where it needs to be. Fortunately for me, Taylor is well aware of where I stand with the junior Mr. Rodriguez, and Luke is very guarding of Krissy. So much so that I'd swear he has feelings for her as well, but his professionalism over the years, not to mention his psychological evaluation, indicates that his feelings are purely protective in nature. So I have nothing to worry about. Right?
Damn it, I should call Flynn. My mind is running away with me. I'm afraid something will happen on the road, that she'll be in another accident, even with Taylor behind the wheel this time. I'm afraid that Jose may take advantage of Krissy's memory loss to push his luck. And I'm afraid my temper tantrum has driven her away, and I don't just mean to Portland. It would serve me right if she left me over my atrocious behavior. Sure, my own smart mouth has gotten me into trouble. But can't she see, on some level, that I'm just trying to keep her safe?
I need to get out.
I don the water-resistant navy track suit Krissy gave me for my birthday. I'd begun to train for a marathon this year, a to-do item on what Krissy calls my "bucket list." Ever the supportive wife, she's been my biggest cheerleader, not to mention that she's been an inspiration by jogging short distances with me along the forested trail that weaves between the properties of our neighborhood. The rain is sparse and rolls off the lightweight nylon as I wish my
troubles would shed from me, but no such luck. I have some serious damage control to do when she gets home.
Reynolds keeps pace about ten meters back, his footfalls echoing mine along the mulch path. Even after all the mess with Hyde was over, I was paranoid enough, yes I admit it, to keep the current security force. Despite my recently verbalized list of character flaws, the original three Taylor hired have stayed, likely due in part to their generous compensation packages, but hopefully also, because Taylor did his homework and selected individuals who take the task seriously. Carter had been a godsend when Ryan was born; a Navy Seal with a degree in early childhood development isn't something you see on every other military resume. And as a bonus, our son adores her. Krissy, both mine and the reset version, find her a bit creepy. I really don't see why.
Krissy. Of course, my thoughts always return to her. I came out here to escape, to let my heart pound, to stretch my legs and my lungs until they burn, to empty my head of all the garbage, the frustration, the anger, to see more clearly the path I need to take, and not the one under my feet. I need a new plan. Something, anything to make her see that I mean well, that I'm just a protective son of a bitch, sorry Mom, who can't help but exert the will to keep my loved ones safe. If she were my Krissy, eye rolling aside, she'd understand. This version of her simply doesn't get it, and for the time being, until she remembers on her own, I don't want her to get it. But I still have to do something, take the first step toward making things right.
And at the corner of the trail, at the wrought iron gate of an adjoining property, is one such aforementioned path.
CHAPTER 12
~ KRISSY ~
I'm still so fucking pissed. I thought getting out, seeing a friend who I'd originally thought had written me off, would help take my mind off that horrible scene from this morning. And it did, for small moments. Jose's pointy goatee, for example, took my mind off Edward's episode for about twenty seconds. Then his urban European photos, blown up in all their architectural glory, probably distracted me for another fifteen seconds each, though a few actually reminded me of Edward, or at least, his cold, sterile, sky-castle at the heart of downtown. And then I'm mad again.
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