The drive home takes half the time it normally would because I break every traffic law in existence. The entire time, Theo simply looks at me, stroking my hair and smiling, undisturbed even when we tear so fast around corners, the tires squeal.
I don’t like his unnatural calm. I don’t like the glassiness in his eyes, that strange new haze that has taken the place of everything that was once so sharp. I don’t like the way his right hand trembles at regular intervals, or the way his shoulders occasionally twitch, or the way he keeps swallowing, as if his mouth is dry.
There’s always a price to be paid for sanity, but in this case, I think it might be too high.
“Theo, what medication are you on?”
He reaches into his coat pocket, removes two small orange vials, and hands them to me. I flick on the overhead light and squint at the labels. One is valium—that’s probably causing the glassy eyes, but it should be out of his system by morning. The other one bears an ominously long name I’ve never seen before. It must be the demon killer causing all the twitching.
I hold that bottle up. “Is this something you’ll need to be on permanently?”
He nods.
Fuck.
I hit the light and drop the bottles into the cup holder. When I huff out a worried breath, he leans over and rests his head in my lap, nuzzling my thighs and stroking my knee, sighing in contentment. By the time we arrive at the Buttercup, he’s fast asleep.
I pull into the driveway, shut off the car, and sit in the darkness, listening to the engine tick and Theo’s deep, even breathing.
How the hell did he get to Booger’s? There’s no way he could’ve managed to drive. Coop said Theo could leave Acadia at night and for weekends if he wanted to, but the staff must monitor the patients’ conditions. I can’t believe they’d let him float out the door like this, high as a kite!
Abruptly, I’m angry. Angry at the employees at Acadia, angry at the universe, angry at his stupid medication and its stupid side effects.
Most of all, angry at myself.
If I’d never moved to Seaside, Theo would’ve been all right. Maybe not stable, maybe not exactly sane, but all right. Surviving. Which is all any of us can reasonably expect in this shitty, fucked-up world. But now here he is, passed out in my lap, a lion reduced to a woozy lamb.
I fish around in his coat, not exactly sure what I’m looking for. Then I feel something in an inside pocket and pull it out. It’s a small white card on which Theo has written the words If found, please return home.
Underneath that, he’s written my name, address, and phone number.
My face crumples. Hot tears slide silently down my cheeks. I slip the card back into his pocket, then sit in the car for a long time, thinking, my mind a dark snarl that goes over and over every possible scenario for what needs to happen next. Ultimately, I decide that no matter what the truth is—whether I’m dealing with a miracle or just two people suffering from mental illness—Theo is now my home too. And there’s nothing in this world that could make me leave his side.
Crazy or not, we’re in this shit together.
That decision made, I get Theo inside, get him upstairs, and put him to bed.
Then I fire up my computer and google a contact number for Acadia.
* * *
I didn’t expect Theo’s doctor to be available. I didn’t expect anyone to be available except maybe a night receptionist, but when I tell the woman who answers the phone that I’m Theo Valentine’s wife, there’s a long pause, then she says, “Hold the line, please.”
The wait stretches so long, I have time to pour myself a whiskey, drink it, and refill my glass. Then a man with a brusque Boston accent and an attitude to match picks up the phone.
“This is Dr. Garner. Who’s this?”
“Megan Du—Valentine. Theo Valentine’s wife.”
It’s a ridiculous gamble. I have no reason to believe Theo might have listed me as a contact on his medical papers, and even less reason to think he might’ve listed me as his spouse. But the same magical thinking that had me stringing coincidences together like Christmas lights has me thinking there’s a chance that he did.
Sure enough, I’m right.
“Hello, Mrs. Valentine,” says Dr. Garner. “How can I help you?”
I’m so relieved, my legs give out. I slide down to the floor and sit there shaking, the phone clutched in one hand and my whiskey in the other. The only thing holding me up is the kitchen counter against my back. I clear my throat, then try to sound like a rational person and not the barking fruitcake I really am. “I want to talk to you about Theo’s treatment plan.”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that.”
“That’s very interesting, Dr. Garner, because the HIPAA Privacy Rule specifically allows a doctor to discuss a patient’s health status with his family.”
If he’s impressed by my knowledge of federal health privacy laws, he doesn’t let on. In a voice as dry as dust, he replies, “Yes. It allows for discussion. It doesn’t require it; disclosure is at the doctor’s discretion.”
Fuck. This guy is a brick wall. “I’d think you’d want to do anything you could to help Theo’s recovery.”
There’s a pause, then Dr. Garner says, “Forgive me for being blunt, Mrs. Valentine, but I could say the same thing about you.”
Like a hissing cat’s, my hackles go up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Are you aware of the nature of your husband’s hallucinations?”
I gulp, my defensiveness vanishing as quickly as it appeared. “He…he mentioned ghosts. Voices.”
“Schizophrenia is characterized by delusions—”
“Schizophrenia?”
My horrified shout cuts Dr. Garner short, then he continues in a sharper tone. “I don’t know how familiar you are with severe mental illnesses, Mrs. Valentine, but Theo needs care for the rest of his life to manage the symptoms of his disease. That means medication, therapy, and—most importantly—support from family and friends.”
The doctor’s voice gains an even harder edge. “He’s made it clear he can’t talk to you about his condition, so frankly, I’m not inclined to talk to you about it either.”
I drain the rest of the whiskey in my glass. It burns a fiery path down my throat, mirroring the blaze of insanity scorching its way through my brain.
Maybe the reason Theo can’t talk to me about his hallucinations is because I play a starring role in them. Maybe what he thinks are hallucinations are something else entirely.
For instance, memories.
In a shaking voice, I say, “Dr. Garner, do you believe in reincarnation?”
“No,” he says flatly, “and I don’t believe in Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy either. If you want to help your husband, convince him to continue his stay at Acadia.”
“Continue? You mean…”
“He’s completed the treatment period he signed up for. I don’t believe he’s a threat to himself or anyone else, so there’s nothing I can do to keep him here, but I strongly believe a stable, therapeutic environment like the one we offer here is in his best interests.”
I stand, balance myself on the kitchen counter for support, straighten my shoulders, and take a grounding breath. When I blow it out, I’m filled with new resolve.
“I’ll tell you what’s in his best interests. Being home with me.”
I hang up, go upstairs, and crawl under the covers next to Theo, who’s sleeping as still and silent as death on Cass’s side of the bed.
* * *
I wake in the quiet gray hours before dawn, burning hot and disoriented. I spend a moment in that hazy space between dreams and reality, my limbs and eyelids heavy, my heart thudding a slow and steady pace.
A hand, strong and rough, slides up my thigh.
Here’s the source of all that heat: Theo’s wrapped around me like a blanket. His legs are drawn up behind mine, his chest is pressed against my back, one muscular arm pillows my head. His lips brush
the nape of my neck.
His erection is a different heat, rock hard and throbbing against my bottom.
He slides his hand over my hip and rib cage and cups my breast, lazily thumbing my nipple until it stiffens. His mouth, hot and wet, opens over my shoulder.
I whisper, “Good morning.”
In response, he presses his teeth gently into my skin.
“Did you sleep well?”
He sucks where his teeth have just been, sliding his hand down my belly and between my legs. I inhale a quiet breath when he touches that most sensitive part of me. With slow, stroking circles, his fingers work their magic. Within moments, I’m softly moaning, turning my head for his kiss.
He takes my mouth. The kiss is deep and erotic, as unhurried as his hands. Soon I’m making a mewling sound in my throat, needing more.
He gives it to me.
Spreading my legs with his knee, he slides his erection between my thighs and uses his hand to guide it between my wetness. But he doesn’t push inside—he strokes back and forth, his shaft sliding through my folds as he continues to work me with his fingers.
I make a small sound of pleasure, rocking my hips in time to his soft, even strokes.
He goes on like that, maddeningly slow, until I start to breathe raggedly and push harder against him. A noise rumbles through his chest, deep and dark, the sound of his desire. He grasps my inner thigh, lifts my leg higher, and cants his hips until he gets the right angle. With one sure thrust, he slides inside.
I arch, moan, shudder. He flattens his hand over my stomach and holds me against his body as he starts to pump into me, shallowly at first, until the greedy movement of my hips forces him deeper.
Then he rolls me onto my belly, fists a hand in my hair, and fucks me until I’m gasping.
I come hard, my fingers digging into the mattress, animal noises of pleasure raw in my throat. He grunts his approval, his breath ragged, his body heavy and hard against my back. I think he’s going to come too, but he slows, withdraws, then flips me over. Then he lowers himself between my thighs and kisses me deeply as he pushes inside.
It’s so good. So natural. He feels like heaven.
He feels like mine.
I hook my ankles around his back and twist my fingers into his hair, pulling hard because I can’t get him deep enough, close enough. I want more of him. More of everything.
He starts to lose himself. I feel it in the way his arms shake, hear it in the deep rasps of his breath, see it in his face as his brows draw together in the kind of pleasure so acute, it’s almost pain. With every thrust of his pelvis, my nipples drag against his chest. He bends his head and takes one into his mouth, then sucks hard as he starts to buck uncontrollably, pumping deep and groaning around my flesh.
“Ah—Theo!”
His entire body jerks. He makes a sound like he’s dying. His hands twitch against my head as his orgasm rips another sound from his lips. A new sound, one I’ve never heard him make before.
It’s a name.
My name.
“Megan!”
All the lingering doubts about my sanity and the impossible puzzle my brain has pieced together are destroyed by finally hearing Theo speak.
Because now I know why he stopped talking.
His voice isn’t his own.
It belongs to a man with sky-blue eyes and a smile like sunshine, whom I first met when I was six years old.
27
I erupt into sobs so hysterical, Theo freezes in shock. Clinging to him with every ounce of strength in my arms, I bury my face in his neck and pour out my euphoria in wave after uncontrollable wave of tears.
“I knew it!” I wail, my voice muffled against his skin. “I knew you’d come back to me!”
Theo’s frozen muscles relax. He exhales, pressing a kiss to my neck. With an edge like a purr, a low laugh rumbles through his chest.
“Sweetheart,” he whispers, his lips near my ear. “I was only gone for a few weeks.” His tone turns gently teasing. “Are you always gonna get this emotional after sex?”
The words are Theo’s, but the voice is one I know well, its timbre a shade more husky, but otherwise unchanged. The echo of that voice has lived in my mind for five long years. I’d recognize it anywhere.
“No—you know what I mean!” I lift my head and stare into his eyes. “Cass, Cass, I love you! I never stopped, not even for a second! I always knew you’d come back!”
Theo stops breathing. He falls still, as still as a corpse. Into his eyes comes a look of pure horror. “What?”
I’m crying so hard, I almost can’t see. Insane with joy, I press frantic kisses all over his neck. “Why did you try to stay away from me? Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why didn’t you come find me in Phoenix?”
He abruptly pushes away from me, withdrawing his body and warmth in a whip-crack move so fast, it’s blinding. He leaps up and stands nude at the foot of the bed, gazing down at me with wide, wild eyes, his hands trembling.
He whispers, “What the hell are you talking about?”
Time stops.
All the clocks in the world stop ticking.
Gravity releases its hold on me and blasts me off into black, frozen space.
I sit up in bed and draw the covers over my naked breasts, and we stare at each other across the silence of the room until I find the courage to speak. “You don’t have to pretend. I won’t…I won’t tell anyone.” My laugh is small, choked with fear. “Who would believe us anyway?”
After a pause in which I hear every beat of my banging heart, Theo says through gritted teeth, “Who would believe us about what?”
My blood crystallizes to ice.
No.
No, this can’t be happening.
Tears are still sliding down my cheeks, but I can no longer feel them. I no longer know how to blink, or move, or even breathe.
“Cass—”
“I’m not your dead fucking husband!” Theo roars in my dead husband’s voice.
The acid bite of bile forces its way up my throat. I swallow it down, shivering uncontrollably. The air has gone so cold, we could be in a crypt. I say hoarsely, “Why are you lying?”
All the light leaves Theo’s eyes. They go dead. It’s like watching storm shades being slammed over windows. “This is why you want me? Because you think I’m him?”
Listening to those words in that voice causes a fissure in my brain. I feel it—a quick, hard snap—like ice cracking underfoot.
I jolt to my feet, right there on the mattress. Clutching the sheet to my chest, I draw a breath so ragged, it sounds like a death rattle. My voice is even worse, as hollow and eerie as if I’m speaking from beyond the grave.
“I don’t think you’re him—you are him. And you’re you. You’re both, and you’re perfect.”
“Stop it,” he says flatly.
“No. Why did you stop talking after your accident, Theo? Why haven’t you spoken a word to anyone in five years?”
He answers without hesitation. “My vocal cords were damaged from smoke inhalation in the accident. My voice changed, and I hated how strange it sounded.”
A hysterical laugh tears from my throat. “Smoke damage? Is that how they explained it to you at Acadia? Because I think we both know it’s something else.”
“Megan, stop—”
“Did you ever see me before I moved here, Theo?”
All the blood drains from his face. He’s as white as the sheet I’m clutching in my fist. He whispers, “I…I had a brain injury, Megan. My hallucinations…they’re not real.”
“Then why did you ask Coop how you could remember someone you’d never met?”
Theo swallows, briefly closing his eyes. In a rasp, he says, “My doctor said I couldn’t get well unless I started talking again, unless I forced myself to. I didn’t want to do it for the first time in front of everyone last night at the party—”
“How did you know me, Theo?”
With a strangled cry, Theo runs ov
er to his clothes, left in a pile on the floor on his side of the bed. He yanks on his jeans, shirt, and jacket while I sink farther and farther into the black delirium rising like floodwaters inside my mind.
They drugged him. Those sons of bitches at Acadia, that soulless bastard Dr. Garner—they fed him drugs, told him he’s schizophrenic, and brainwashed him into believing a miracle was mental illness.
I’m not having it. I’m not having any of it. This is my soul mate, and I won’t let anyone take him away from me.
Not again.
I shout, “You’re afraid of yellow balloons!”
Theo flinches as if I’ve punched him in the gut. Backing away slowly toward the bedroom door, he stares at me as I give witness to the truth of who he is at the absolute top of my lungs.
“Your mother’s name was Mary! Your father was Dan! When you were ten years old, you got a beagle and named him Snoopy!”
Theo slaps his hands over his ears. Shaking his head and still moving backward, his face crumples, and he starts to cry.
“You loved hot dogs and bear claws and Mad Max movies! You photographed lightning strikes and painted landscapes in oils! You proposed to me in the same place we first made love when we were sixteen, under the blooming acacia at our favorite spot in the bend in the Salt River! You had a tattoo of Matthew verse seven across your back, because you were a seeker who believed that the only way to get at the truth was to knock on every door until you found it!”
His sob tears a hole in my heart, but I have to keep going. I can’t stop, no matter how much he might want me to. I have to break through this wall of denial once and for all.
I step down from the mattress and stalk toward him, one step forward for each stumbling step he takes away, my body racked with tremors, my voice rising to a scream.
“And whether you choose to accept it or not, the truth is that you died at 12:02 in the morning on the seventeenth of May five years ago—your name was Cassidy Michael Dunn, and you were the love of my life!”
Crying openly now, Theo turns and sprints from the room.
As his footsteps pound hollowly down the stairs, I lose the strength in my legs. I sink to my knees, the room spinning. In a few moments, the front door slams with a boom that rattles the windows. The roar of a car engine breaks the still of the morning outside, followed by the angry squeal of tires spinning against pavement, then another roar as the car takes off at top speed down the street. I don’t have to look to know the car is mine. Theo obviously took my keys from my purse.
Midnight Valentine Page 24