“Admit it, I’m not the only adrenaline junkie here. You miss work.” His expression didn’t quite rank as one of his smiles. A sort of half smile. Somewhere between a Two and a Three.
Did I miss work? I wasn’t sure. I missed having something specific to do every day. I missed feeling useful, productive. Did I need to go back to working at the Bureau? I recalled what John said about it the night before: a crappy-paying job with lousy hours and no respect. A fair summation. As Jean—and Charles—had both pointed out, I could do anything I wanted.
I wanted to be with John. Whether or not I needed to be his work partner as well as his life partner was another thing altogether.
My nonresponse must have dragged on a bit too long, because John turned and looked at me curiously. “You okay?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Just thinking.”
“You know,” he began slowly, choosing his words as carefully as someone picking their way across an icy path, “you don’t have to come back to work for the Bureau. Not unless you want to, that is. I mean, it’s not like you don’t have plenty of options. If you wanted to go back to school to get another degree, or train for a different field altogether….” He shrugged.
“What makes you think I don’t want to come back?”
His shoulder hitched as though he started to shrug again and thought better of it. “I dunno. It’s a tough profession. It’s frequently depressing and discouraging. Sometimes it takes years to get the bad guy, if at all. I wouldn’t hold it against you if you decided you didn’t want to be an agent anymore.”
I squinted at him. “You wouldn’t?”
“No. If you wanted to… I dunno… open a used bookstore, or run your own cooking classes, that would be fine with me.”
I thought about it for two seconds. “Pleasant to think about, in a fantasy kind of way. I’d be bored out of my mind in less than a week, though.”
“Just a thought.”
“Nice but unnecessary. Don’t go breaking in a new partner anytime soon. I don’t trust anyone else to watch your back.”
“Me neither.” The smile he gave me was pure Two, in a smoldering, come-hither kind of way.
So, I did.
THERE DIDN’T seem to be any more question of John sleeping downstairs with me. He just did, as he’d been doing intermittently until then. I don’t know if Jean said anything to him about it. She certainly didn’t say anything to me. John behaved as usual, getting up early to take a run, coming back to shower and change. He’d packed the night before. Saying good-bye was a matter of kissing me on the forehead as I barely acknowledged his presence before he was gone. I was asleep again within seconds.
The second time I woke, it was because a soft paw was batting me on the nose. I opened my eyes to see Phoenix staring intently at me. When I let my eyelids droop shut again, she gently touched my lashes. Fearing an accidental claw in the eyeball, I sighed and got up. A chorus of feline joy greeted my movement, but I made them wait until I’d had a piss before I fed them.
For once, I had a full day planned. Since I was already scheduled for a recheck with the neurologist, I’d gone ahead and set up as many appointments as possible for the same day, so I was seeing the orthopedic guy as well as the physical therapist. I had an appointment with my regular therapist too. Yay. Fun would be had by all.
I talked Jean into just dropping me off at the hospital and picking me up later. No sense in her wasting most of her day waiting for me, even if she insisted it was her pleasure and she had nothing better to do.
It was a relief, being left to my own devices, watching Jean pull away from the curb at the hospital’s entrance. It’s not that I minded her company—though it might have been a little awkward, considering the dinner conversation of the other evening. I was tired of feeling like I needed a sitter, especially after I pulled off a sexy night out with my boyfriend. I didn’t want to be an invalid anymore. I was hoping the day’s appointments would verify that. No doubt, that would be a conversation I’d have with my therapist too. Controlling the urge to roll my eyes, as that still gave me a bit of a headache, I entered the building and headed for the elevators.
The first stop was the orthopedist. As I suspected, the swelling in my arm had gone down enough that they wanted to replace the original cast with a new one. So much for the phone number from the cute guy in the bar. Just as well. I got the impression John hadn’t been too happy about that, even though he said nothing. The orthopedist also ordered repeat films of my arm and pronounced my radius was healing appropriately and without complication. After a long wait, during which I chatted up the nurses, I got a fresh cast. This one would be on for another couple of weeks or so, and then I’d get one that I could take on and off, so I could undergo physical therapy to regain full use of my wrist. My recovery time seemed to stretch out in front of me ad infinitum, and I wondered how long work would extend my medical leave.
The PT appointment was next. There wasn’t much they could do about my wrist until the final cast was removed, but I’d been working with a physical therapist because of the damage to my shoulder and neck from the blow from the baseball bat. Thank God, Cunningham only got in one strike. John saw to that.
The PT was delighted that I’d been doing my exercises at home, and doing them correctly as well. “Most people aren’t disciplined enough to do the plan we outline,” she said, with a sunny smile. I had a sneaking suspicion physical therapists and aerobics instructors were grown from the same pot. Probably started out in life as cheerleaders. “But even if they do, they usually get something wrong. You’re the perfect patient.”
I murmured something benign about wanting to get well and having a good teacher. Being snide with her would have felt like kicking Lassie.
Practically the entire neurology department turned out when I showed up for my appointment. I was their favorite patient, apparently. My neurologist was a decent guy, but he liked to show me off like a one-trick pony. The current set of neurology residents, along with some fourth-year medical students, were there for my evaluation. I underwent the physical portion of my exam and then, to please the staff, played a few rounds of “My Memory is So Much Better than Yours.” One of the residents whipped out a tablet and served as a fact checker, but as usual, I won every round. My doc tut-tutted a bit when I mentioned the brief episode of vertigo the other evening, but in the end, decided there was nothing on my exam that warranted another MRI, thank God.
He was mostly interested in having me come back at some point to participate in a series of tests so he could write me up in the Journal of Neurology. He was quite excited about it. Apparently I was going to help him trump an old classmate who’d been working on neuroplasticity and how sections of the brain enlarged during intensive training. I advised him that my brain was off-limits for examination while I was still using it, but he encouraged me to consider donating my body to science when I no longer needed it. Nice.
I was running late by the time I left the neuro department. My appointment with my therapist was at 1:30 p.m. I’d planned—though without any real enthusiasm—to eat lunch in the hospital cafeteria, but I’d used most of my allotted time by amusing the neurology staff. The last thing I wanted was to bolt down a greasy burger or some limp greens on the run, but I didn’t want to go into my session thinking more about my growling stomach than why I was there. I got a candy bar from the vending machine. Looking at my reflection in the glass, I thought I might just have to start running with John after all. Weeks of inactivity and indulging in my favorite recipes was showing around my waistline. I was poking at my belly with dismay when I caught sight of someone watching me from behind. I collected my candy bar and walked away with as much dignity as I could muster.
I made the chocolate bar last as I headed down to see my therapist, Dr. Bishop. The elevator was crowded. I was strongly tempted to stuff the whole thing in my mouth and pretend I wasn’t eating it, but I figured I might as well enjoy it. I wasn’t going to enjoy my therapy session
, that’s for sure. I’d been through those sessions before—mandatory after certain kinds of incidents in my line of work. It was all a lot of voodoo, if you ask me.
Dr. Bishop had a small suite of rooms on the second floor. Her receptionist had never introduced herself and didn’t have a nameplate on her desk. I referred to her as the Gorgon. I had to call her something, right? Though she didn’t have venomous snakes for hair, it was in tight ringlets, and I’m pretty sure if she looked at you just right, you’d turn to stone.
I entered the waiting area and approached the desk.
“You’re early,” the Gorgon said.
“Sorry,” I said, not sure why I was apologizing. “I can wait.”
“You’ll have to.”
I took a seat in one of the comfortable chairs by a sunny window, and listened to the tinkling sound of water trickling over stones in a nearby miniature fountain. It was a pleasant noise, but if I had to listen to it all day, it would drive me nuts. Perhaps that’s what was wrong with the Gorgon. My stomach growled, nosily pointing out that I probably could have squeezed lunch in if I’d tried.
I was checking my messages when the Gorgon spoke again. “You have to turn off your cell phone.” She indicated a sign on the wall behind her that demanded the same in large letters.
“My session hasn’t started yet. Besides, I’m reading.” I pulled up my Kindle app and discovered I was in the middle of a novel I didn’t remember starting. Great. It turned out to be a gay suspense story with a heavy dose of romance. With a sigh, I thumbed back to the beginning.
A buzzer sounded, muted and gentle, as though apologizing for interrupting. The Gorgon lifted the receiver and depressed a switch on her phone. “Yes? Yes, he’s here, Dr. Bishop. All right. I’ll send him in.” She replaced the receiver and gave me a sharp look, as though I were responsible for the page over the phone. “Dr. Bishop will see you now.”
Thank God.
“Please turn off your cell phone.”
Perhaps she worked at a movie theater before she landed this job. I was sorely tempted to ask for some popcorn. Instead, I complied with a sigh, tucking the phone in my back pocket as I opened the door to the inner office.
Regina Bishop was seated in one of two chairs, partners to the ones in her waiting area. The far wall had a large window that looked down into a small courtyard. Someone had hung a bird feeder on the single tree in the neat little square of grass, close enough to be interesting without being distracting. It offered a nice view for the person who didn’t want to make eye contact, or who needed a focal point while gathering their thoughts. I once asked her why not a fish tank, and she laughed. “Too predictable and too much upkeep.”
We got along fairly well, when she wasn’t treating me like an errant schoolboy held over for detention. It’s not that I didn’t like her. It’s just that the whole “therapy” thing struck me as a complete waste of time. As sciences go, psychology is as mushy as it gets. I’d yet to meet a psychologist who hadn’t gone into the field seeking self-treatment.
Between the two chairs stood a small table holding a pitcher of ice water with a couple of glasses. She’d already poured herself a glass. The cold water had condensed on the glass, forming a ring around the glass and the pitcher. It was all I could do not to demand some paper towels to mop it up before taking my seat across from her. I resisted because I knew she would make something of my need to wipe up the water before it ruined the table. Yet I wondered if she was taking notes on the fact that I didn’t clean up the ring. That’s the thing with psychology. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.
“New cast, I see.”
“Yes. Just this morning.”
“Ah, that explains why you’re early.” Unlike the Gorgon, she said it with a smile. She wore her graying hair pulled back off her strong face with a large barrette, and no makeup—as near as I could tell—behind her dark, rectangular glasses.
“I’m always on time.” I couldn’t help the frown.
“I’m not criticizing. Merely observing. You’re extremely punctual. You’re seldom this early, however.”
I nodded. It was a pointless conversation, but the proprieties had to be observed before we got to the nitty-gritty of the session.
“And your arm?” she prompted, a gentle segue into why we were there. She picked up her pen and notepad.
“Fine. Healing well. It was just time to replace the old cast. I have to wear this one another couple of weeks, and then I’ll get one of those removable ones.”
“And your other injuries?”
We talked about my physical injuries—the headaches, the vertigo, my overall pain control, and my PT. I relaxed during the recap. It wasn’t anything I hadn’t discussed already multiple times that day.
“I see you didn’t bring your journal with you. Surely you didn’t forget?” Her eyebrow was decidedly sardonic.
“I didn’t forget. It’s gotten misplaced somehow.” I’d asked Jean about it that morning, but she hadn’t seen it, nor, it would seem, would she have dreamt of touching it. Which was probably a good thing, because I’d written about the sexiness of her son. My face burned as I thought about someone else reading my lustful droolings. Or my worries and concerns about our relationship. I’d have to ask John about it when he got back to town. He wouldn’t have read it, but he might have moved it for some reason.
“Did it now? How interesting.”
“You make it sound like I lost it on purpose.”
“I didn’t say that. That’s a somewhat revealing reaction to my comment, however. Why would I think you had misplaced it on purpose? Aside from the fact that, as someone with a perfect memory, you never misplace anything?”
Sometimes I got the impression she didn’t believe in the whole eidetic memory thing. “Normally I do keep track of my things. I always know exactly where I left them. But when you live with other people, things get moved or covered up. It’s not like we need it, though. I can tell you everything I’ve written down.”
“That wasn’t exactly the point, as you well know. Part of the process was the expression of your feelings. Tell me, what exactly have you learned from keeping the journal?”
“That I shouldn’t write all my innermost thoughts down on paper? Especially if they concern one really hot FBI agent, and I’m living in his mother’s basement.”
“You told me last week that keeping a journal revealed certain things about your memory loss to you. Specific gaps—all of which were related to your relationship with John Flynn. Have you remembered anything else about the time you two have been together?”
I shook my head. “Not really. Just a little blip of something now and then. Most of the rest of my past has come back, though. And I remember everything that’s happened since I woke up from the coma.”
“Why do you think you can’t remember your relationship with John?” She tapped the pen a few times against her notebook and stopped when she became aware of what she was doing.
Why couldn’t I remember my relationship with John? The one thing that was the most important to me, and I had a big blank spot where technicolor memories should be. I chose my words carefully when I spoke. “Well, I used to think it was because he wasn’t officially out. Not that he was hiding being gay, mind you, just that he wasn’t advertising it, either.” I paused, uncomfortable talking about John like that, even with my therapist. “The day I got out of the hospital, he told me that he was only just admitting to himself he was gay. He hadn’t come out to his family yet.”
“How long have you been together?” Despite her professional demeanor, her skepticism leaked into her voice.
I knew where she was headed. “According to everything I’ve been told, about six months.”
“And in all that time, John wasn’t sure he was gay? What was he, then? Experimenting?”
I couldn’t answer that question, and I was worried she might be right, so I went back to her earlier one. “Anyway it isn’t because he isn’t out, because he i
s sort of out now, and I still don’t remember our relationship prior to waking up in the hospital. That is, except for brief, weird flashes here and there.”
“How can someone be ‘sort of out’?” She cocked her head sideways like an intelligent spaniel, and I had to smother a laugh. Sobering, I told her about my mother’s obituary, and the reaction of both Charles and Jean. As I expected, she leapt on the dead mother/unresolved issues thing, and we took up most of the rest of our session with how I felt about my mother’s death, my estrangement from my family, and being cut out of the funeral. Gah. As if I cared.
As if sensing she’d lost me, she shot an arrow in my direction, just to catch my attention. “So, back to your inability to remember your relationship with John, then. How are things going between you?”
I rubbed my chin while I decided how to answer and wondered if she was making something Freudian out of that too. I thought about our night in the hotel, and a smile snuck across my face. “Good. Really good. We seem to be feeling our way into new territory, but it’s all good.”
She narrowed her eyes and then glanced at her watch. “We’re not going to have time to broach that particular subject in detail, but tell me, do you think John loves you?”
“Yes.” No hesitation on my part there. I knew he loved me. He showed me in so many little ways every day.
“Has he told you that he does?”
“Yes.” Twice since I woke from the coma. I gathered it wasn’t something he normally did. Frankly I wasn’t one to fall all over someone and profess undying love either, but somehow, in those early days postcoma, he knew I needed to hear that reassurance, and he was man enough to give it to me.
“Have you been able to conduct a review of your computer’s search history yet?”
I blinked at her. The question came out of nowhere. “I haven’t tried, to be honest.”
“I guess not, if any attempt triggers a migraine.” She was wearing a slightly smug expression that made me want to smack her. “Has it ever occurred to you that it’s a little strange that you can look up information you need to know, and watch television and movies, but every time you go examine your laptop’s search history, you get these blinding migraines?”
Truth and Consequences Page 15