TouchStone for ever (The Story of Us Trilogy)

by Sydney Jamesson

  “All done?” Ayden asks, returning to my side.

  “Yes. All your wife needs now is rest and lots of attention, Mr. Stone.”

  “Oh, I think I can arrange that,” he states humorously. “I’ll call Lester and have him bring the car around.”

  “Please wait until I can arrange for a wheelchair.” She turns to me. “Would you like me to help you get dressed?”

  I shake my head. “No thanks. I think I can manage.” Once again, I slide my legs out of bed and cautiously place my feet on the floor, mentally counting the number of steps it will take to reach the bathroom.

  “Here, take my arm.”

  I hold onto Ayden’s right arm, leaning into him as I move gingerly towards the illuminated mirror and my big reveal.

  “What do you want to do?” he asks, unsure of my intentions.

  “I want to freshen up and get dressed.” I straighten my back and try to balance myself unaided.

  “Here, sit down. I’ll get your clothes.”

  He leaves me to sit and catch my breath, but the pale and bruised woman I see reflected back at me steals the breath from my lungs.

  On returning he stops dead. “Don’t worry about the bruises. They’ll heal quicker than you think.”

  His words seem hollow and lacking in compassion. “I know the bruises will heal, Ayden.” I look up at him. “I’m more concerned about you …”

  He tips his head to the right. “Me? I’m perfectly fine.”

  “Are you? You seem a little … distant; as if you’re scared to touch me.” I wait to be reassured.

  “I’m sorry. Seeing you like this … it’s ...” He looks about the room for an answer. “It’s distressing. I’m afraid to touch you in case I hurt you. You’ve been through such a lot and your body is still healing.”

  “This is true,” I answer almost as a reflex action but he doesn’t react. I can’t help but wrinkle my nose. What’s happened to him? Where’s my playful Ayden? I need him to raise my spirits before I fall backwards again into that dark abyss.

  “Leave my clothes. I’ll dress myself.” Feeling just the right amount of tenacity to stand, I reach for my underwear.

  “If you’re sure?”

  “I am.”

  He exits quietly, leaving me to struggle with my clothing and face my hideous twin. I dress as quickly as I can, running my fingers over fading bruises on my arms and my face. I remove the padding from my stomach and I’m pleasantly surprised to see a small discreet scar just below my belly button. It’s not as bad as I had imagined, but it’s the invisible damage concealed in the cavity beneath it that causes tears to prick my eyes.

  I reposition the padding and cover myself with a plain black dress; somewhat fitting under the circumstances. I clip back my hair and splash my face with cold water in the hope of encouraging cream coloured cheeks to blush. My tinted moisturiser helps but does little to conceal the tinge of blue beneath my left eye.

  Holding onto the counter top, I trace the worry lines forming between my eyes and apply lip-gloss to lips that are still a little swollen and, then it hits me … I haven’t kissed Ayden for over four days. He’s not even made any attempt to hold me. Has his concussion taken away his ability to feel anything for me?

  I’ve heard of people changing after accidents; not being themselves…

  There’s a knock on the door. “I’ll be right out.” I pull myself together and prepare to face the music, terrified my own imaginings might actually be true.

  I’m met with a warm smile. “All set?” He pulls the wheelchair out for me to sit down. “Take a seat while I pack your things.”

  Obediently, I sit, monitoring his movements as he hurriedly collects toiletries and bits of clothing. As is my way, I am silent and pensive.

  Lorna hands Ayden a bag of tablets and creams for me; he places them on top of everything else and zips up the leather case. We’re ready to leave.

  Lorna bids me farewell. “It’s been nice meeting you, Elizabeth. You’re well on the road to recovery. Just make sure you don’t do too much too soon.”

  “Thank you Lorna.” I look up at Ayden. “Let’s go home.”

  Lester is waiting outside the main entrance. He quickly opens the door to the Rolls. I catch his sympathetic smile and acknowledge it with a nod. After some careful manoeuvring, I seat myself on the back seat and Ayden joins me. Instinctively I reach for his hand and he takes hold of mine gently, offering reassurance but nothing more.

  “I’ve asked Bernie to set up the bed in the guest bedroom for you until you feel a little stronger. I don’t want to roll over in the night and hurt you.”

  I knew that was coming.

  “That’s a good idea. I’ll feel right at home there.”

  Why make a fuss?

  “It’s only temporary, until …”

  “… Until, we both feel more like ourselves”.

  “Exactly.”

  I try to settle my misgivings about his remoteness and attribute it to concussion and his need to take care of me; depriving him of my affections in the process, it seems. But, all I want to do is curl up in his arms, to feel the warmth of his body next to mine; to have him whisper sweet nothings in my ear. To be healed by his love.

  ***

  Detective Constable Sheridan is struggling to carry a large box of items relating to the Richards case. He moves towards a glass door with the initials CID – Criminal Investigation Division - neatly engraved in a gold font, and pushes his weight against it. Grateful to be relieved of his burden, he places it on a side desk and begins to remove its contents. Once they are laid out, he finds the appropriate form on his laptop and begins to list them in no particular order. He reaches for his camera out of the drawer, clicking away until every single item has been listed and accounted for; this includes a knife in a sealed plastic bag and a hand-written note that he reads through then slides into a plastic wallet, recognising its significance to the case.

  He adds the case reference number to the file and prints it out complete with the photos from the attached SD card, including those taken at the scene and his seemingly relevant array of items. All this will await the attention of a senior offer. He was told to record, but can’t help reading through the report written up by the officers on the scene.

  It makes for a gruesome read but he presses on, reading two witness accounts. One says how the car spun out of control and the other makes reference to a passenger who seemed to be leaning over to the driver, causing him to lose control of the car. Two eyewitnesses have given an account of a four-wheel drive vehicle that appeared to slow and then speed up, purposely charging into the sports car.

  The fatal injuries sustained by the passenger would support that, indicating the driver Mr. Ayden Stone was merely a victim in this crazy woman’s suicidal scheme to kill them both; but … what does he know?

  With the job done, he places the file on the in tray, turns off the light and leaves the premises, thinking no more about it.

  5

  Ayden places my case on the guest bed and I sit myself down beside it, kicking off my shoes. “Thanks, I can take it from here.”

  “Would you like me to run you a bath?” he asks hesitantly, watching my face for signs of discomfort.

  “Yes, that would be nice.”

  “I’ll organise something to eat; a salad of some sort with a selection of cold meats. How does that sound?”

  “Delicious.” I smile weakly at his attempt to move things along. Maybe this is how he deals with such a traumatic series of incidents? Just to get on with things; act as if nothing of any significance has happened?

  But it has …

  I stifle a whimper with my right hand. He’s standing a foot away from me but there’s an ocean between us. One of us has to reach out before we are swamped in sadness so deep we may drown in it.

  “Ayden, look at me.” I rest my hands on my thighs and lift my head so our eyes are locked: misty aquamarine and blue topaz bonded together. I see the t
ell-tale marks that bear witness to our encounter with a madman, but those scars run deeper than the bruises on his face.

  “I understand why you want to wrap me in cotton wool; to lock me away where you know I’ll be safe and well looked after, but that’s not what I need.” I reach out my hand to him. “I need you.”

  He takes my hand and edges closer. “I know.”

  “I don’t think you do. I think you’re grieving or you’re in shock or something, because you’re not yourself, not with me.” I tighten my grip on his hand and tug at it to prompt a response. “Talk to me. Tell me how you feel because I don’t think I can take much more of your coldness.” I wipe away my tears with my free hand before they dampen my cheeks.

  He bows his head. “I’m sorry. It’s a coping mechanism, I suppose …”

  “But you don’t have to cope alone. We’ve both been close to death and the dead, there’s no denying that, but … by some miracle we’re alive. Fate has taken us by the hand, Ayden, and led us to this point and …”

  He lowers his head and smiles ruefully. “Is that how you see it?”

  I stand before him, caressing his scarred cheekbone with my fingertips. “It is. I won’t cease to exist if you say my name. The name you whisper when you’re teasing me; that same name you call out when we make love. I need to hear my name leave your lips, Ayden, if only to be reassured that you still love me; that you remember me and what we had.”

  “I want to remember, but for that I need your permission.” He fixes me with a serious stare.

  “Permission?”

  “Yes.”

  I flop down heavily on the bed and fiddle with my wedding ring. “I don’t understand.”

  “You will, in time …”

  Our conversation is ended abruptly by a knock on the bedroom door. “Excuse me, Mr. Stone, I have a selection of your wife’s clothes from the master bedroom as you requested.”

  He points Bernie in the direction of the wardrobe. “Thank you. Please place them in there.”

  Ending our conversation he exits the room and I am left watching my clothes slot one piece at a time into an empty wardrobe. Bernie closes the door and turns to face me, trying unsuccessfully to conceal her surprise as my ghostly pallor. “Can I get you anything, Mrs. Stone?”

  I shake my head. “No thank you Bernie, and please call me Beth.”

  “Thank you. You can reach me by pressing zero on the phone by the bed at any time. Please don’t hesitate. I’ve prepared a selection of food for you in the fridge, so when you’re ready …”

  “That’s kind of you, thank you.”

  She turns and walks quietly out. I lick at the gloss on my lips, feeling the plumpness of tender flesh. As I breathe, the scar on my stomach stretches and contracts, leaving me with a painless feeling of tightness. All in all I am visibly healing, but the fact I may not be able to conceive is a crushing reminder of my brutal attack. An unwelcome shiver of fear runs the length of my body; fear at what might have happened and fear of what is to come. I can’t begin to even contemplate living my life like this; a married couple under one roof with nothing to connect them other than a surname.

  I pour some expensive bubble bath into the bubbling water and watch it fill with scented froth. The room folds in around me as the steam rises from the bubbles. When I turn to my left I flinch slightly, seeing Ayden standing by the door, leaning on the frame.

  “You’ll feel much better after a bath,” he states. “Let me help you.”

  I don’t resist.

  He begins by unbuttoning my dress and folding it over my shoulders, around my elbows, holding it while I step out of it. He falters.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask. “Can’t you bear to look my bruised body?”

  He’s shaking his head. “Of course no, it isn’t that.”

  As I wait to be rejected, I’m transfixed by his penetrating stare. His features appear to soften; that faraway look in his eyes morphs into something else…

  Sadness.

  A single tears falls from his right eye and trickles over the fine row of sutures before descending onto his cheek. I stand on my toes and catch it with my lips when it reaches his chin. As my tears fall, he does the same and kisses away my pain, until my sobs become no more than a hard swallow.

  “You’ve been very brave but there is one more trial for you to face before you can be truly free of all this. My only concern is that you’re in no shape mentally or physically to process what I have to tell you.”

  Feeling restored by the closeness of his body I offer a reply, “There’s nothing I can’t handle if we’re together, Ayden.” I take a step back. “Why do you mention a trial? You mean for having killed my attacker?”

  “No. That’s being taken care of and you won’t be charged with anything. My legal team is handling all that and there’s enough evidence against him to forgo any charges that may be levelled at you.” He takes a deep breath. “No. This is more of a personal sacrifice …”

  “It is?”

  He’s nodding. “Take your bath, and once you’re refreshed and we’ve eaten, I’ll explain.”

  We’re sitting across from each other. The glass table is highly polished and the crystal wine glasses reflect in it as I did not so long ago. Thankfully, there are no traces of my fingerprints or smears left over from my naked body; everything is pristine and untouched.

  Between mouthfuls I look up and he catches my eye but I refuse to respond to the midnight blue hues of flickering light emanating from those bewitching orbs. I need to think straight and I must not let myself become caught up in his silent seduction.

  “You’ve found your appetite,” he observes, watching the last morsel of carpaccio leave my plate. “Are you feeling revived after your soak?”

  Still unsettled by the tone of his voice I nod slowly. Both timbre and phrasing are recognisable as Ayden’s, but the playfulness I love so much is missing, and no amount of wine will restore this man to his roguish self, tonight.

  “So, you mentioned a trial.” I align my knife and fork neatly. “What am I to be put on trial for?”

  He pushes back his chair. “This isn’t the place to discuss that. Come and sit down.” He reaches for our glasses of wine and moves gracefully in the direction of the sofa. Once seated, he taps the cushion for me to join him.

  I join him on the sumptuous leather sofa and turn to face him. He looks calm and composed, perfectly at home.

  “Do you recall your first meeting with Alenka?”

  Alenka!

  I simply nod, still hearing her name whirring in my ears several seconds after he has spoken.

  “Something surprising happened in the washroom, didn’t it? Something that has puzzled you since then. What was it?”

  The washroom?

  “I don’t recall …”

  He raises a disbelieving brow. “Think carefully. It isn’t a trick question.”

  I think back. ”There was something.”

  “Yes.”

  “I was shocked to find out that she knew me; who I was before, you know…?”

  He nods. “Yes I know. And how did you think she acquired that information?”

  “From you, of course.” I lower my shoulders. “Look, Ayden, why are you asking me this? What has Alenka got to do with us?”

  “Very little to do with us, more to do with me, actually.”

  What!

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” I hold up the impressive band of platinum sitting next to my engagement ring and flick it with my thumbnail. “We’re married, remember?”

  “I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Well there’s a surprise. Seems like you’ve forgotten everything else; like my name for instance. Why can’t you bear to even utter it? Is it because it’s not Alenka? Are you missing the fantasy fucking already? Is that it?”

  He’s shaking his head vigorously. “No! Absolutely not!”

  “Then what?”

  He leans into me and faces me square
ly, I notice how the scratches on his forehead have disappeared, and the sutures on his cheekbone have melted into his skin like leftover ice cream.

  “Tell me, what do you see?”

  I can’t help but reach out to touch his flawless skin, absent of bruises and swelling.

  “I see a handsome man who looks remarkably well, considering what he’s been through.”

  I wait for a jovial ‘this is true’ but I’m left wanting.

  “There’s a reason for that and it’s not one you will be prepared for or want to hear, I’m afraid.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I have had you in my sights for some time, most of your life in fact. Only now have I come face to face with you, like this.” He glances down but, sensing I’m about to speak, puts a broad finger against his lips. “Shhh …you must try to listen. Don’t speak until I have said what I must. Please try Frances.”

  Frances?

  “I first met you when your grandmother passed away. It was a warm summer’s evening and you were eight years old. You were sobbing by her bedside and she spoke to you of fairies and Neverland. Do you remember?”

  Wide-eyed, I nod and dissolve into the sofa.

  “She was a very sweet lady and her passing was filled with sorrow but you grew and your sorrow eased.” He reaches for our glasses of wine; I take hold of mine and throw back two large mouthfuls before handing him the glass.

  “As I recall, your mother’s passing was a tragic affair, and there was much sadness in your home, but … she was suffering unnecessarily, and she welcomed me with open arms, fearing only for your welfare.” He pauses for a moment but I am so mesmerized by him that I cannot speak.

  He inhales deeply. “Your father left you with a grieving heart that simply would not mend.” He searches for the right words …

  “To die, to sleep—

  No more, and by a sleep to say we end

  The heartache and the thousand natural shocks

  That flesh is heir to—'tis a consummation