Everything Stolen

by Sophia Scarlet

  “Chambers,” I correct him, feeling every bit of the sting when I confront reality.

  But that’s what today is about. Confronting the reality of my life. Of Levi’s life. Of our future.

  “Oh, sorry. The Bradfords asked that only family be allowed to visit.”

  “Of course they did,” I mutter.

  The more things change, the more they stay the same. My animosity for Bruce and Sharon fades when I consider another possibility. Maybe Jeremy doesn’t want to see me? Maybe the restriction had been his idea?

  “I’m not a Bradford, but Jeremy and I are family. I’m his son’s mother.”

  The unflinching smile plastered on the man’s face offers little comfort when he nods.

  “I’m going to have to check with Mr. Bradford. Please wait here.”

  He doesn’t wait for my response. He and his big smile walk toward the glass security doors while I resign myself to waiting at the front desk. My frayed nerves compel me to move, so I pace. After only a few minutes the pacing grows tiresome. Another man wearing a big smile and a white ‘Sausalito Therapeutic Center’ polo approaches and I step toward him.

  “Excuse me, I’m here to visit someone…”

  “Clint will be right back, Miss,” he says, cutting me off and moving along.

  He flashes me a bright smile before he goes and I wonder what everyone here is taking. Ginseng? SSRIs? Chinese Skullcap? I kinda want some, but that’s not why I’m here. I’m here to talk to Jeremy.

  This morning, I dropped Levi off at school and called Noah immediately. He didn’t want me to visit. He said that Jeremy needed time to recover before he saw me again. But when I pled, he relented. He grudgingly gave me the address of Jeremy’s rehab facility and I drove straight here.

  I only have a couple of hours before I have to drive back to St. Paul’s to pick up Levi. Losing my patience, I decide that I don’t really care if Jeremy wants to see me. He’d shown up on my door step a few weeks ago without checking to see if I wanted to see him.

  Glancing around for white shirts, I stealthily move past the front desk. The locked glass door swings open as a smiling woman in a white shirt wheels out a patient. I smile brightly as they pass, and then slip through the door before it clicks shut.

  The building is an airy crescent shape. Large windows overlook the bay and a magnificent garden on one side while white doors line the other. The garden is busy. Therapists in white shirts work with a diverse range of patients. I pause to watch a woman smiling and clapping with a little girl. Her eyes and nose suggest she has Down syndrome, but there is absolutely nothing disabled about her smile. I can almost hear her laughing through the glass.

  Maybe that’s why everyone here is obnoxiously sunny? Do they get to hear that kind of laughter all day? Shaking out of my head, I search for his voice, for the sound of his laughter. I’m pressing my ear up to one of the doors when a man clears his throat behind me.

  Clint from the front desk is there; his head tilts and his brows quirk up. He hands me my visitor’s pass with a bemused smile. I take it with a guilty swallow and clip it onto my blazer.

  “This way, Ms. Chambers.”

  He takes off down the hall and I follow, quickening my steps to keep up with his long strides. I hear guttural yells and cheering as I follow him into a large gymnasium. The robust game of basketball playing out there is distinctive only because all of the players are in wheelchairs. An impressively muscled man with a gash visible through his orange hair makes a shot from half court that draws a roar from the couple dozen spectators watching. Another man rolls up and the two slap hands. When the second man turns his chair I recognize him and my heart beats faster.

  “Mr. Bradford was in the middle of the game,” says Clint, “so it took me a little longer to get a word with him. If you follow me, the game is almost over and then you can have your visit.”

  I follow.

  “Thanks,” I say once I’m seated on the bleachers.

  I consider apologizing for my impatience but Clint strides out of the gym before I can say anything else.

  As I watch the game, surrounded by the laughter and clamor of the friends and family sitting with me, shame creeps in. I was so wrong. There is absolutely nothing broken about these people. Their humanity shines like a beacon as they play and scrap and smile and cheer.

  Jeremy fits in with ease. He’s always done that. Maybe it’s because of his natural charm or perhaps there was something universally disarming in those dynamic hazel eyes? But Jeremy Bradford has always been easy to like and quick to belong. As he nods in the huddle, I see that it’s more than that, he’s a natural leader. He’s only been here a few weeks and I can see the other players looking to him, listening to him.

  The final buzzer echoes through the room just as the ginger-haired man shoots. The swish as it passes through the net sends the stands into a frenzy. Those who can are standing and jumping. Those in the chairs circle and thump on the ginger’s back. That’s when Jeremy notices me. Amidst the roar around us, we lock on to each other and I smile.

  He stares at me, ignoring the whooping and high-fives all around him. His expression gives nothing away. He’s gotten most of his color back. I imagine that he’s been outside often here. He’s always loved the outdoors. He sits up straighter than he had a few weeks ago. The frailty that had altered him so dramatically has all but fallen away. He’s still leaner than he had been, but in the lift of his chest and the set of his jaw, I see so much of the man I’d known four years ago.

  By the time he rolls toward me, much of the crowd has dispersed. I grab a cup of water from the table and offer it to him. He takes it with a smile and downs it quickly.

  “Mmm,” he breathes, raising the cup slightly. “It gets pretty intense out there.”

  His voice has lost the sluggish quality it had the last time we’d spoken. I laugh and hand him another cup. He drinks it just as quickly as the first and when he hands them both back to me, our fingers brush.

  “Thanks,” he says.

  The single word drips with so many unasked questions and unsaid declarations.

  “Thanks for seeing me,” I reply.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry about that whole ‘Bradfords only’ thing. I’ve had a few stockholders, the new CEO at BE, and even a reporter drop in. I’ve added you to the list so you won’t have any trouble… if you visit again.”

  He looks down as he continues.

  “I added Silas and Levi also,” he adds. “We spoke, you know.”

  Jeremy squints when I tilt my head and the word ‘who’ forms on my lips.

  “Silas called me two weeks ago. He said you were out of town for a few days and then he’d bring Levi by to meet me.”

  A mix of embarrassment and irritation heats my face. Why wouldn’t he tell me?

  “Does he do that a lot?” Jeremy asks, “make decisions without discussing it with you? Make plans about my son without…”

  “Stop,” I whisper, cutting him off, pleading with my eyes for him to see how hard this is for me.

  He closes his mouth and draws in a long breath. The irritation in his voice had only exacerbated the confusion and frustration spinning in my mind. But when he stands and takes a couple of fluid steps in my direction, new thoughts, unwanted sensations stir into the already potent cocktail clouding my head. We’re inches apart and I can smell the heat coming off his body. Images of the last time I smelled that raw, dirty, masculine scent flash and I can barely maintain eye contact. Can he see what I’m thinking?

  “Who’s your friend, JB?”

  The ginger-haired man rolls up to us and my attention turns to him. My head clears as I focus on the man whose sleek wheelchair looks like tech from a Bond movie. He wears that chair the way most people wear their favorite pair of shoes, with ease and elegance. I imagine he’s been in it for a long time.

  “Jim, this is Sylvie, the mother of my son.”

  The man swallows and
I’m suddenly very self-conscious. What has Jeremy told these people about me.

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Sylvie,” he says offering a hand.

  His grip is every bit as formidable as his large upper body would indicate. Is it just from wheeling himself about or does he also lift?

  “Jeremy and I spend a lot of time pumping iron together,” he adds, affecting a vaguely German accent for the words ‘pumping iron.’

  I laugh at the charmer as he adds, “He’s coming along nicely.”

  Jeremy smiles at his friend’s teasing.

  “There are a lot of really great people here,” Jeremy says, slapping Jim on the shoulder. “Jim’s kinda taken me under his wing. He’s the most knowledgeable volunteer here. After he graduated from PT he decided to come back a couple days a week to help sad lost souls like me figure out how to get ourselves in order.”

  “Pleased to do it,” says Jim before he turns to me. “You know I’ve never met someone who came out of a four-year coma before. They’re calling it a medical marvel. I think one of the PTs here is writing a paper on his rapid recovery…”

  “Alright, alright. Enough with the miracle bit. I’m just grateful to have another chance.”

  The way he looks at me when he speaks the last words sends a shiver up my spine. For the briefest moment the two of us connect and everything else falls away. Then Jim clears his throat and Jeremy and I turn to him.

  “It was good to meet you, Sylvie. I’m going to head to lunch. See you this afternoon, JB?”

  Jeremy nods and Jim rolls away. Turning back to me, Jeremy offers me his hand.

  “How about we go outside?”

  Looking at his open palm, I’m torn. But my hand moves to his and I take it. His fingers wrap around mine in a way that I’d never forgotten. The friction of his skin brushing mine is heaven. The warmth in his touch threatens my resolve. When his thumb strokes above my knuckles, the singe of the air around us heats my cheeks. I squeeze and then let go.

  “You lead the way,” I breathe.

  The strained half smile that twists at his mouth makes me wish I could have basked in his touch and twined our fingers together; but I would have regretted that more. He turns away and I follow him into the garden and onto a path on the outer edge of the campus. His gait still betrays a slight unevenness, not quite a limp but not the graceful strides with which he used to move, either. The curves of his broad back have regained much of their previous posture and bearing. I can barely tear my eyes away when he lifts his chin to inhale the bay air.

  “I’m glad to see you, Sylvie,” he says turning to me.

  “I’m glad to see you, too. You look amazing.”

  “Yeah, well,” he chuckles. “A couple weeks of every type of therapy imaginable have given me all the motivation I could possibly have to get out of here.”

  “Is it that bad?” I ask, so glad to hear him joking.

  “Nah,” he answers, with a broad smile. “It’s been the best thing for me. They’re talking about letting me out in a few weeks. I’ll come back for PT and counseling but they’re happy with my speech and occupational progress. Apparently,” he says, with a silly head wobble, “my enunciation and motor skills are near normal now.”

  He overemphasizes the word enunciation and I see so much of the man I loved in his manner. I smile, but I can’t help but feel so much loss when I see him fighting his way back. I should be here to support him—to cheerlead during the good times and anchor him during the rough patches. Guilt forces my gaze into the distance and I shake my head.

  “You deserve so much better,” I mutter, mostly to myself.

  But he hears me and he takes my hand.

  “Don’t do that to yourself, sweetheart.” He strokes my cheek and I remember how his touch once brought me so much comfort. I never thought I would hear him call me sweetheart again; but here we are together, yet still a lifetime apart. He brushes my lips with his thumb and I get lost in his sparkling eyes. His pupils are dilated despite the bright sky around us.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” he says.

  The longing in his eyes sends chills down my spine and I pull away from his touch. His jaw clenches. He steps away from me.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened when I disappeared,” he says after a long pause.

  “Have you remembered anything?”

  “Nothing…” he gropes for the right word and lands on, “firm.”

  My questioning look urges him to explain.

  “I can remember flashes: spreadsheets on the computer, a squabble with Jack Moore, buckling my seatbelt, my motorcycle helmet… nothing substantial,” he adds. “ Nothing I can really look into.”

  The struggle behind his eyes pains me. I wish there were something I could do to ease his anxieties.

  “The thing is,” he continues, “none of it really makes sense.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I was wearing my riding clothes, but Noah found my bike and my helmet at the office and my car was at our apartment. So how did I get out of the city? And Bruce and Sharon hired an investigator but the hospital where I woke up said no one ever came looking for a John Doe…”

  “I hired one, too,” I add. “A separate investigator. He didn’t find anything and neither did I.” When he slants up an eyebrow, I add quietly. “I went to every local hospital personally. Where did you wake up?”

  “St. Helena Brightstar General. Did you go there?”

  “Honestly, I don’t remember. It was four years ago and…”

  “…and you’ve been busy since,” he finishes.

  He meets my gaze and my lips part to offer an apology for not looking harder. I’d promised I would always find him and I’d failed him… I’d failed us.

  He speaks before the raw guilt I carry finds expression.

  “The police told my parents that this was an accident pure and simple. They said that it’s rare to have a missing person found after such a long time and we should count our blessings and enjoy our lives. But I don’t think what happened was an accident. I think there’s more to this and I need your help. I need to find out who did this to me… to us.”

  His jaw tightens when he finishes speaking and I see the quiet rage behind his eyes. I know that look. I see it in the mirror whenever I think about the life we almost had together. That desperation for answers, the need for closure has burned me to the core for years. The fire connects us as I nod.

  “I’m in,” I say without hesitation. “Where do we start?”

  He smiles again, that brilliant, unrestrained smile he shares with our son. I can see in his eyes that he has a plan. When he holds out his hand this time, I take it; not the affectionate clasp of a lover, but the fierce clench of a partner. We can never be what we were, but in this moment, we’re as intimate as two people can be. Our grip is a silent vow. We cling to each other, fueled by our common rage. Determined. Bound. Together.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I feel a little lighter when I leave Jeremy to pick up our son. Levi runs to me, bursting with energy and stories about his day; but by the time we drive the short distance to the house, he’s almost asleep. Silas’ car is in the driveway. Why would he be home this time of day?

  As I’m lifting the dead weight of my drowsy child into my arms, Noah wheels Jeremy’s bike out of the garage. It had been accumulating dust there since the day Jeremy returned and Noah left it. He pauses when I raise my index finger to my lips. Glancing at his nephew, asleep in my arms, Noah smiles. But I see something behind that smile, something I’d never seen before. Or maybe just never wanted to notice?

  “How was Jeremy?” he whispers.

  “Better.”

  “Good,” he says, sincerity transforming his face as I question everything. “I’ll see you later, Sylvie.”

  “Ride safe,” I mutter as he wheels the bike to the end of the driveway.

  Once he’s far enoug
h away that he won’t jar Levi, he climbs on the bike and rides away. I follow his agile movements until he’s out of view. The roar of Jeremy’s bike fades and Levi shifts in my arms.

  Inside the house, I climb the steps to Levi’s room.

  “Was Uncle Noah here, Mommy?” he asks as we remove his uniform and dress him in his long johns for a nap.

  “Yes, sweet pea, you’ll see him again soon.”

  “When will I see my father?”

  “Daddy’s downstairs, you’ll see him after your nap.”

  “When will I see my new father?”

  Pausing, my eyes well and I choke on my answer.

  “Soon,” I croak as I kiss his forehead and he nods.

  He’s snoring seconds after I tuck him into his toddler bed. I slip out of his room, eager for some quiet to process the events of the morning.

  “We need to talk.”

  Startled, I turn to my husband’s voice and see him shrouded in the shadows of the upstairs hallway. His brow is furrowed and he stands more rigidly than usual. He’s abandoned his suit jacket at some point and his sleeves are folded up his forearms. All of his weight, his heavy tension, is split between his heels and his clenching jaw. The emotional fatigue settling in my muscles urges me to go lie down, but something in the sound of Silas’ voice—in the darkness of his gaze—compels me to go to him, instead.

  Placing a hand on his chest, I look into his stormy eyes.

  “What’s wrong? Why are you home so early?”

  “You went to see him.”

  I try to drop my hand but Silas covers it with his and presses it harder into his chest. I feel his heartbeat in my palm. I hear Toby Lightman’s “Holding a Heart” as I feel a ragged exhale and I can’t tell if it’s his or mine.