Dry as Rain

by Gina Holmes

  Our poster bed stood neatly made and looked the same as always except that all four of the pillows were now piled on her side with a novel resting beside them. I turned it over and glanced at the cover. A man held an adoring woman in his well-dressed arms. Since when did she take to reading romances? She was already disappointed enough in our relationship, the last thing she needed was an idealistic hero to compare me with.

  “You think you’d know what to do with her?” I asked the one-dimensional man, before setting the book back down as I’d found it.

  I left the bedroom and walked into the living room. Everything was tidy as usual. Kyra had been such a pack rat when I’d first met her, but over the years my anal need for order and cleanliness had rubbed off on her. Now, like me, she preferred everything in its place.

  A fish bowl sat on an end table beside a lamp. A small blue beta floated between two leaves of a fake plant nestled into blue gravel. I’d forgotten all about our fish, Steve. I tapped on the glass, wondering if he was dead, but he took off like a shark was hot on his tail.

  Good old, hearty beta fish, I thought. The perfect pets. They didn’t need to be walked or petted and could even go days without food. Too bad I didn’t marry one.

  I sprinkled a few flakes on top of the water, then checked my watch. This time tomorrow my wife would be home. I recapped the fish food, took one more look around our home, and shut the door behind me.

  Eight

  You only want what you don’t have until you get it.

  Who was it who had said that to me recently? I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to remember. Right now, I wanted only to see Kyra walk through the door so I could take her home. Of course, solving the dilemma of getting her out of Batten Falls was only going to force me to face bigger problems.

  I felt like a weary old man as I sat in the now-familiar conference room waiting for Dr. Hershing to join me. I looked at the wall clock. Already twenty minutes had passed. What was taking him so long? If the man would come on already, I could still make it to the lot by noon and get a halfway-decent nine-hour shift in.

  Air-conditioning poured in from the vent right above me, causing a single cobweb strand to flutter in its breeze. Feeling the chill, I slipped my suit jacket off my chair and put it back on. When I looked up, Hershing stood before me.

  In one hand he held a notepad. The other was extended toward me. “Good morning, Eric.”

  I shook his hand, looking at the door. “Good morning. Where’s my wife?”

  He slid his fingers from my grip. “Kyra will be down shortly, but I wanted to discuss a few things with you first.”

  I gave my watch what I hoped was an obvious glance. “I’m kind of in a hurry.”

  He pulled out a chair and sat. “What could be more important than your wife, Mr. Yoshida?”

  Deciding whether or not to respond to the jab, I licked my lips, tasting the cola I’d drunk on the way over.

  He flashed an almost-genuine smile as he set his interlocked hands atop the pad he’d carried in. “I have a few questions for you before I release Kyra to your care.”

  Oh good, more questions. “Have at it.”

  “Is it true you and your wife are separated?”

  I felt my face catch fire. “Who told you that?”

  “Your stepfather, Alfred.”

  “You spoke with him again?”

  “No, just when Kyra was admitted.”

  So Hershing had already known the state of our marriage when he asked me the other day if our twenty years together had been good? That figured. “Stop playing games. You already know the answer, so why bother asking? Why don’t you tell me about my marriage since you know so much?”

  He looked down at his hands as though in prayer, but instead of praying, he read something on the legal pad. “You’re very defensive, Mr. Yoshida, but you don’t need to be with me. I was married once. I understand how difficult things can be at times.”

  I studied him. So he was divorced and planning on giving me advice? The blind sure did love to lead the blind.

  “My wife passed away last year. While it was a good marriage all in all, we separated twice for short periods in our twenty-four years together. Rough patches happen to the best of us. You don’t need to be embarrassed. I know as well as anyone how painful love can be. Most people find it helps if they talk about it.”

  The hands of misery squeezed tight around my throat. No matter what hocus-pocus Hershing pulled, though, he was not going to manipulate me into crying. No way.

  I opened my mouth to say that I wasn’t embarrassed, that it was no big deal, things weren’t that bad between us really, but the lump rising in my throat told me my voice might crack if I did. Instead, I crossed my arms and stared down the light switch.

  He laced his fingers and tapped his thumbs together. “Here’s what I’ve been told, Eric. Stop me if I get something wrong. You work a lot. Kyra is alone a lot. She was very upset by your son’s departure.” He paused, looking at me as though expecting confirmation.

  I just blinked back. This was my personal business. Between me and Kyra and maybe our son, but no one else. Certainly not this stranger.

  After a few seconds, the doctor sighed. “The good news is she no longer thinks you’re dead.”

  I straightened my collar. “So you told me on the phone yesterday. Are we finished here?”

  “Not quite. There’s still a problem.”

  I looked at my watch again. Why wouldn’t he just come out with it already? “I’m listening.”

  “I don’t think Kyra remembers that you two are separated.”

  At last, I let my eyes meet his. “Why do you think that?”

  His hands stilled. “Once she realized you were alive, she was so relieved, she couldn’t stop crying. She spoke about you like a woman in love. She gushed about what a hard worker you are. How perfect you two are together, and your upcoming vacation.” He studied me a moment. “Frankly she went on and on so much so I had to cut her off so I could make time for my other patients.”

  I was stunned to silence. I had no idea what to make of any of it. Kyra hadn’t acted that way toward me in years, and the last time we’d discussed the possibility of a vacation was well before she’d found my and Danielle’s e-mail exchange. “Wow,” I finally said.

  “Wow is right.”

  I couldn’t stop my head from spinning. What did this mean for her? For us? “Did you tell her the truth?”

  The beeper clinging to Hershing’s waist wailed. He unclipped it, read the number, then hit a button and slipped it back on. “I didn’t think that best. She’s fragile right now. You just came back from the dead for her. I think it would do more harm than good to take you away again.”

  My leg bounced up and down as I considered the situation. “What am I supposed to do in the meantime? I can’t tell her and I can’t not tell her. This is terrible.”

  He nodded empathetically. “It’s a difficult situation. There’s no clear-cut right or wrong, but if I were you, I’d let her figure it out in her own time rather than overwhelming her too soon.”

  This was just great. Was I supposed to pretend I wasn’t staying with Larry? Just crawl into bed with her like nothing was wrong? Then what would happen when her memory returned? I could just hear her screaming for me to get out of her bed before she called the police or threatened to kill me. No, I would definitely have to tell her.

  On the other hand . . . I’d never wanted this separation in the first place. What if this was my do-over? a chance to get it right the second time around?

  “I can see your wheels turning, Eric.”

  I stilled my leg as an idea came to me. “Maybe she should stay here a little while longer. Just until the rest of her memory comes back. I think that would be—”

  He put a hand up, motioning for me to stop. “There’s no real reason to keep her here. We know why she has memory loss, and the only cure is time.”

  My temples pounded. “What do I do meanwhi
le?”

  “Take her home.”

  I glanced up. “Hers or mine?”

  “It’s a tough call, Eric. If you’re going to come out and tell her the truth, be gentle. She’s under the impression that you two are couple of the year.”

  Nine

  Southern Haven magazine once described Everson, Virginia, as a “charming little town with big city appeal.” Today, it seemed like nothing more than a scaled-down version of New York minus the taxicabs and Brooklyn accent.

  Too many hurried motorists on too few roads guaranteed a long, tension-filled commute home. Even though it was well past the morning rush hour when we left Batten Falls, the thirty-minute trek home had managed to take us nearly an hour, and we were still a mile away from Rolling Springs.

  For a change, Kyra didn’t complain about the traffic. No amount of blaring horns or tailgaters were going to ruin her uncharacteristically good mood. She said the horror of having her husband taken from her—or rather believing I was—had made her realize what was worth worry in this life, and what was not. Her giddiness only added to my misery.

  Cool spring air wafted in through the open window, carrying with it the thick stench of exhaust. I could feel my wife’s suddenly love-struck eyes on me as I held my breath, stared ahead at the back of a dusty produce truck, and waited for the traffic light to blink from red to green.

  She laid her hand on my leg and smiled at me. It should have been a welcome change to see her teeth instead of fangs, but under the circumstances, it just unnerved me.

  “Is the embarrassment of me being in that place what’s bothering you?” she asked.

  I snuck a glance at her before staring ahead at the road again. Her long red hair lay draped over her shoulders, sunlight intensified the blue of her eyes, and with the exception of the small blue circle in the center of her forehead, her skin was flawless. Why did she have to be so pretty? “Of course not.”

  “What, then?”

  “I’m just worried about you.” It was the truth, but not, of course, the whole truth. The light flashed green and I punched the gas. The sudden velocity thrust her back in her seat.

  She let out a nervous laugh. “Easy there, Jeff Gordon.”

  Without commenting, I eased off the accelerator and turned on the radio. Five For Fighting sang, “If God made you, He’s in love with me.” It was the last song we’d danced to together. I jabbed the radio back off.

  She frowned at me, but I pretended not to notice. A horn blared behind us. I glanced in the rearview to see some goofball in a white pickup riding our tail. I mumbled a curse and slowed to a crawl.

  She touched my shoulder. “Just let him get by, babe.”

  Anger welled inside me—at the man for risking his and our lives just so he could get wherever he was headed a few seconds earlier, at myself for blowing my second chance with Kyra even before I knew I had it, but mostly at her for being so nice to me. Her disappointment and disgust I’d learned to live with, but this resurrection of affection was just too cruel.

  I tapped the brakes a few more times. After a moment or two of riding our bumper so close anyone passing might assume we were giving him a tow, the man finally got the message and fell back. Satisfied at the growing distance between us, I sped up again to fifty-five.

  Kyra leaned over and kissed my cheek. I’d forgotten how warm and soft her lips were. She buried her nose in my lapel, inhaled, then gave me a funny look and sniffed again.

  It occurred to me then that I was wearing the same suit jacket I had the night I’d spent with Danielle. I hadn’t yet had it dry-cleaned. I jerked away from her. “What are you doing?”

  “You smell like watermelon.”

  Every red-blooded man knows that the best defense is a good offense, and I was no exception. I made an annoyed face as I turned onto Macabee Avenue, our street. “And you smell like a psychiatric hospital.”

  I felt bad hitting below the belt like that, until I remembered all the times she’d verbally cut me down in the last few months. Her memory might be fried, but mine was just fine. I brushed off my jacket as if wiping off Danielle’s scent was as easy as getting rid of a little donut powder. If only it were that easy.

  Her smile returned as she leaned her head against me. “Tell those ladies you sell cars to that your wife would appreciate it if they’d keep their hands to themselves.” There was a wink in her tone, but I found no humor in the words. I had learned over the years just how treacherous this line of joking could turn.

  I pulled into the driveway of our house.

  Kyra let out a satisfied sigh. “Well, look at that. The dogwoods are in bloom.”

  So they were. So what? I thought.

  “They make the place look a little homier, don’t you think?”

  What was I supposed to say to that? She hated the house. I knew it and she knew I knew it. “Glad something about our home makes you happy.”

  A crease formed between her eyebrows.

  I started walking up the driveway before realizing she hadn’t gotten out of the car. I looked back over my shoulder at her through the closed window. Was she waiting for me to open the door? I’d stopped doing that years ago. Probably about the same time she started taking it for granted. Begrudgingly, I went back and yanked open her door.

  “I can’t believe you forgot me.” She stepped onto the pavement. I couldn’t tell by the odd look on her face if she was amused, hurt, or needed to use the bathroom. I barely looked at her as she kissed my cheek and thanked me. “It’s good to be home.”

  For how long? I wondered.

  As I ushered her up the sidewalk, she turned suddenly, startling me, and threw her arms around my neck. “You’re alive!”

  My knee-jerk reaction was to push her from me and tell her she’d lost the right to touch me this way when she kicked me out. Instead, I gently unwrapped her fingers. “You know this means no insurance money.”

  “That’s okay.” She gave my neck a quick peck before I could get away. “You’re worth more to me alive than dead anyhow.”

  She was right, though I doubt she knew it. I’d changed my life insurance policy the week before to be paid out to Benji instead of her in the case of my untimely demise. If I wasn’t good enough to share her bed, then she wasn’t good enough for my insurance money. Besides, I couldn’t stand the thought of her driving men around in a shiny new convertible that my death paid for.

  As she followed me up the walkway, I felt her hands trying to smooth away a wrinkle from the back of my suit jacket. “You might want to get that dry-cleaned. Not only does it smell like your customers, it looks like you either slept in or on top of it.”

  I threw a perturbed look over my shoulder. “Don’t start.”

  She grabbed my hand, forcing me to stop and look at her. “Baby, are you okay?”

  I pulled away. “I’m fine. I’m just thinking about something at work.”

  “You work too hard,” she whispered.

  “What else is new?” I started walking again. There was a certain amount of comfort in settling back into one of our regular arguments. Hurrying in front of me, she blocked my retreat to the house. “You’re not dead. That’s new.” She bit her bottom lip and gave me what may or may not have been bedroom eyes.

  “Kyra! Eric!”

  We simultaneously turned to face the yuppie neighbors I referred to as D.I.N.K.s—double income, no kids.

  Neighbor Brenda Harrington laid her pruning shears beside the boxwoods in front of her house and tugged on the sun visor framing her pasty forehead. Her husband, Bram, pulled off suspiciously dirt-free gardening gloves. They both wore jeans that were made to appear worn, with deliberate factory-made tears and uniformly frayed cuffs.

  The Harringtons met us at the end of the walkway, wearing grins that looked as fake as mine felt. “Kyra, Eric,” Brenda cooed. “It’s good to see you both.”

  “Good to see you, too,” I lied, trying to nudge Kyra up the stairs by her elbow before these two phonies could sa
y more than her mind could safely process.

  Instead of appreciation, Kyra ripped her arm away from me and scowled.

  Brenda shifted her weight to one leg and tilted her head to the side like a dog. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you two together. We were really worried that you’d be selling soon and we’d be getting new neighbors.” She looked at her husband. “Isn’t it nice to see them together, honey?”

  As usual, Bram had pasted his hair with too much gel and hairspray, giving him a Ken-doll appearance. “It really is.”

  If they said together one more time . . . I cleared my throat and tried, once again, to encourage Kyra up the stairs.

  She batted my hand away and scowled harder. “You know Eric works a lot.” There was an unmistakable defensiveness in her tone.

  Both Bram and Brenda tucked a thumb into their front pockets at the same instant as if they had choreographed the move. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to learn they had. Their whole life seemed choreographed to me.

  I stepped in front of Kyra like a human shield. “If you’ll excuse us. My wife was in an accident and—”

  Kyra stepped out from my shadow just as the couple gasped. Bram’s eyebrows fell in an exaggerated dip while Brenda’s hand flew to cover her mouth. “Oh no! Are you okay?” Her gaze jetted over Kyra’s body, searching for evidence of injury.

  “She’s fine,” I said, “but she has a concussion, so her memory is a little hazy. I’m sure you understand that I want to get her inside and lay her down.”

  Kyra nodded solemnly, looking relieved for the out.

  “Oh, of course, of course,” Brenda said. “I just wanted to remind you that our godchild, Adel, is competing with her pony club this Friday evening. Kyra, you had said you’d try to make it, but now that you two are,” she paused, giving Bram a private look, “well, it sure would be nice to have you both there.”