Through smoky pain, he heard Kirk taunt him. A clot of something sour and salty rose to his throat and he retched into the dirt. The pain radiated from his groin to his chest, and rings of darkness encroached on his vision like the closing of the aperture on a camera lens from f/4 to f/8 to f/16.
He brought Trissa's face to mind and held it there, a charm against the blackness. The next kick was to his left ear, and he saw and heard nothing else.
*****
Trissa's worry mounted steadily since dinner when Nicholas didn't show and he hadn't called. Augusta had reminded her several times that he had said he might be late. She had tried to keep her busy making bows and ribbon streamers to festoon the music room. But when seven o'clock had come and gone, no amount of brightly colored bunting could have kept up her spirits.
When the phone rang, they all froze, it seemed everyone expected the worst, and no one wanted to be to be the one to hear it. Roger rose to answer it at last.
"Blackburn residence." There was a pause, then he smiled and nodded. "Just a moment." He pointed at Trissa and mouthed, "I think it's him."
"Hello? Nicholas?" Her voice was tight with anxiety and a bit breathless.
"No, Bryant Edmonds. Hello, Trissa."
"Oh, it's you. I can't speak now. I'm expecting a call."
"I think this may be it."
"Don't flatter yourself," she said flatly.
"Wait, you misunderstand. I have some bad news. Do you have someone with you?"
"Yes," her voice rose on the word. "Yes, Augusta's here. What is it? Tell me."
"Have her bring you down to the hospital right away. It's Brewer. The police just brought him in."
"No. What happened?"
"He's pretty badly beaten up. I'm sorry, but you'd better hurry. They may have to take him into surgery."
Trissa felt the blood drain from her head and she crumpled like a rag doll. Roger, who hovered nearby, caught her just before she hit the floor.
They revived her with a sniff of ammonia and a cold glass of water, and it was as if the ice in the glass had put ice in her veins. Suddenly all business, she fetched her purse and coat, left instructions for Beverly for clothes to pack and bring Nicholas at the hospital.
She was still giving directions when Augusta bundled her out the back door to the car that Jack had warmed up and ready. On the way to the hospital, she chattered on about Nicholas and his talent and how she wanted him to send his photos in somewhere and try to sell them, but he kept saying they weren't good enough. She thought she might surprise him and send some in any way. She'd go to the library and look up how to do it.
"Do you think he'd be upset if I did that, Augusta?"
"I don't know, honey, maybe it would be wise to wait."
"Wait? Wait for what?"
Augusta patted her knee, and Trissa clutched at her hand and read the answer in her eyes. "Oh, Augusta, what if he's killed -- My father warned me he would -- Oh, God, he warned me." She let the tears come then and Augusta comforted her and told her it was good to cry. It would make her stronger when she had to be, when Nicholas needed her smiles to make him get better.
Chapter Fifteen
Like shifting patterns in smoke, the dream swirled around him and Cole drifted, rising near its surface then sinking again, always throbbing with pain as regular as his heart beat or his breathing. He had lost the beginning of the dream down a white, cold tunnel of memory, and it seemed that he had trudged along for miles and days, seeing nothing, hearing nothing.
Now and then, there were windows of color: a frigid, starry night along a railroad track, a moment in a green-walled room staring, waiting, waking in a car and scratching a letter to Fitapaldi on a scrap of paper. They were glimpses of life snatched away from him by a will stronger than his own, so that the features of the dream slipped away, and there was only darkness and the passage of time.
Occasionally, the pain towed him up to the shallows of consciousness. Cole gulped for air before submerging again and she was there, the chestnut-haired sprite with eyes as sad and blue as craters of the moon. He blinked and she kissed him and called him Nicholas. Then down and down he plunged, like a sinking ship, to the place that was bottom...that was death. In the shadowed depths his family beckoned, Jill and Danny and Valerie, younger and happier than he remembered them, hand in hand, Red Rover, Red Rover. But when he reached to touch them, it was her hand that held him, pulled him back.
"Nicholas, come back to me. I need you. I love you."
And he would float near the surface and dream again. Always, the pain connected him to life, like a surging current in an overheated electrical cord, burning through his gut or pulsing down the side of his head. His neck was encased and immobilized, restricting his vision and muffling sound.
She sat on his left, his good side, stroking a finger lightly over his cheek from time to time, shaving him with cautious tenderness when shafts of morning light pierced the shade of his dead sleep, kissing his eyelids when they fluttered in dreams.
"Wake up, Nicholas. We're waiting for you."
But they waited for Nicholas. The other. And not for Cole at all.
In his dreams, he saw an old woman, bent and ragged, hunched against the cold of a November day. She offered Cole a drink from her treasured silver flask.
"Be thankful you're alive, if nothing else," she croaked at him. "There'll be long cold years ahead when you're not." Clouds hung low around them, the sky dipping to man-height. They drank and smoked and she gave advice in a raspy singsong. "When you scrape bottom, the only way to go is up, I always say."
"Or out," came his quick and sensible suggestion. "There's always out."
"Yeah, that too, I guess. Up or out, either way." She started to walk away, into the fog that thickened with the billows of smoke she puffed from the stub of her cigarette, then turned and shook a crooked finger at him. "But you can't stay here, Sonny. Up or out. Out or up. But move along. Move along."
The clouds became snow and he slogged along, the drifts coming up to his chest, clumping down his boots. The wind threw pelts of ice against his face, slivering into his ear and down his neck like jagged spikes. And he cried out with the shattering pain of it. "Out! Out. I choose out."
"I'm here, Nicholas," a silver voice called through the snow and the pain. "It's all right. I'm here."
But he is not, Cole thought. Nicholas is not here. It is only Cole.
*****
Every afternoon, Augusta arrived bringing Trissa the bounty of Ruth's morning labor, treats and tidbits to tempt her to eat. To please her and to appease Ruth, Trissa ate, pretending enthusiasm when she really had no appetite at all. Augusta would stay and force Trissa to rest until Bryant Edmonds arrived for his evening shift and come to talk to both of them about Nicholas.
"The hemorrhaging has stopped, but we have to be careful of uremic shock. Abdominal swelling has decreased, but the right kidney still has not returned to full functioning, which is the reason for continued fluid build up. The collar will come off in a few days, but we are not sure that hearing has not been affected." Edmonds' reports had a clinical balance, for every silver lining, a cloud.
"And when will he regain consciousness?" Trissa always asked.
"We don't know."
The police came three times to question Nicholas, quick to walk away when he proved beyond questioning. On the third visit, Trissa broke away from Augusta's restraining arm to chase after them.
"If you want to know who did this to him, if you really care to find out, ask me! You think you can dismiss this like he -- like he was some stray hit by a car. It was m-murder, pure and simple. Ask me! Ask my father, Robert Kirk. But you'd better ask soon. Before I get the chance."
"Trissa, don't" said Augusta. "Go stay with Nicholas, honey. I'll talk to the police." She walked with them to the elevator and gave the necessary information.
When the police returned, it was with the news that Robert Kirk was missing. No one had seen him since the day
of the alleged assault.
"Have you looked under any rocks?" was Trissa's bitter response.
On Sunday, Augusta and Roger brought a stranger with them. He was little taller than Trissa, a round gnome of a man with a shiny pate and eyes that were licorice dark and deep with sparkles like those of a curious child.
"Trissa, this is Dr. Lorenzo Fitapaldi from Michigan. He's come to see Nicholas. He has known Nicholas -- he calls him Cole -- a long time."
"Mrs. Brewer, I am so sorry we have to meet under such sad circumstances. When I heard of Nicholas' marriage, I was so hopeful... ah, it gave me great joy. But now this." The doctor's black, wooly-worm eyebrows met in the middle when he frowned. His stubby-fingered hand grasped hers and held it as he peered into her eyes. "Yes, you are one Cole might choose. Let us see if we can bring him back to you."
Hope seemed to flow in the warmth of his grip and it ignited a glimmer of a smile in her. "He... sometimes, he seems so close and other times... Doctor, I'm so afraid."
Dr. Fitapaldi nodded and she led him into the room to Nicholas' bedside. She saw the look of shock that flashed over the doctor's face before he had a chance to dissemble, and her newborn hope faded. Nicholas' face was ashy gray and wreathed in shadows as if death already sighed its cold breath upon it. She mourned the lost animated intensity of his eyes and the crinkle of his smile, and Trissa's stomach ached with unshed tears, restrained by her effort to be brave. "He doesn't look like himself."
"Has he said any intelligible words?"
"Yes, but only in dreams." She stroked the back of her finger on his cheek and spoke softly to him. "Nicholas, an old friend is here to see you."
"May I speak to him?" Fitapaldi asked.
"Yes, of course." She started to step back but he motioned to her to stay where she was and to continue to touch his cheek as she did.
"Cole Brewer. Cole, it is Dr. Fitapaldi. I received your letter. Do you hear me, Cole Brewer?"
"Dr. Edmonds said his hearing might be impaired by the blow," Trissa said.
"Perhaps, but I think he hears us. Watch." He came closer and leaned in so that his face was inches away from Nicholas. His voice was a shade above a whisper when he spoke again. "Cole Brewer, you surprise me with the pretty girl you have found here. Must you leave her so sad and lonely? It is not like you to be so heartless, Cole Brewer."
Trissa gasped when she saw Nicholas knit his brow, a faint and fleeting frown. "Nicholas?"
"Call him Cole. Keep your voice clear and strong."
"C-Cole? It's Trissa. I miss you so..." She jumped when his eyes flickered, almost opening.
"Say it. Say his name again."
"Cole Brewer, please."
As if he were fighting her summoning him back to life, his breath became ragged and there was a soft groan of pain deep in his throat. His frown deepened and his eyes were squinted shut so tightly that deep wrinkles creased the corners. She clasped his hand locking their thumbs. "Cole Brewer."
"Turn off the light," Dr. Fitapaldi instructed Augusta. When the room was cast in only the cold, afternoon light from the north-facing window, Nicholas' frown eased and his breathing became more regular. Slowly, he raised his eyelids and looked at her. But his eyes were bewildered, lost. He straightened his fingers and slid his hand from her grip, looking beyond her to Fitapaldi.
"Doctor, is it my father?" he asked.
"No change, Cole."
Nicholas nodded and closed his eyes again.
Augusta put her arm around Trissa and led her away from the bed. "He didn't know me."
"Honey, he's had a shock. We almost lost him. He needs time."
"He doesn't remember me."
"That is very likely, Mrs. Brewer. Do you know his history?"
"History? I... no."
"Then I think we need to talk. May I take you to dinner?"
"But I can't leave."
"Roger and I will stay, dear."
"Perhaps, Mrs. Blackburn, you should come along as well. It is a hard story to hear. Mrs. Brewer may need the comfort of a friend to see her through it."
Trissa swallowed the hard knot of fear that rose in her throat. "What is wrong with him, Doctor? Will he ever remember me? Why does it seem he doesn't recognize his own name? I've always called him Nicholas."
"You must hear my story, Mrs. Brewer. Please."
Trissa refused to leave the hospital, so they wound up in the cafeteria. Roger stayed up in the room with specific instructions to call for them if there was any change at all. They got coffee and sandwiches, so, along with the goodies Ruth had sent, they had a fine meal before them. Trissa ate next to nothing. Fitapaldi insisted on hearing how Trissa and Nicholas had met and married. Trissa calmly told him the story she and Nicholas had composed.
"Nicholas works in a camera shop on the corner where I used to transfer busses on my way home from school. Sometimes I'd stop in and talk about the cameras. I never had one of my own. Nicholas offered to loan me one and teach me how to use it. One thing led to another and we just decided to get married."
"You're still in school?"
"Yes, I'm a freshman at St. Louis University. I wanted to quit. I have a partial scholarship, but there are still expenses. But Nicholas wouldn't let me. He helps me study. Everybody at home does, and I'm doing better now than I ever did before."
"How old are you, Trissa?"
"Eighteen."
"What about your family?"
"I was not happy there. They objected to the marriage."
"Tell him everything, Trissa," Augusta said. "It may be important."
She looked from Augusta to Fitapaldi. The placid acceptance in his face instilled trust in her. She felt she could tell him everything and he would not recoil in disgust or blame her. But Augusta was there, and Trissa did not want her to know and perhaps think less of her. "I believe my father may have done this to Nicholas. He told me he would if I did not come home. I told the police, but they can't find out anything."
"Have they talked to your father?"
"He's missing apparently. He was never a homebody."
Fitapaldi rose to clear away their empty dishes. When he returned, he reached a hand across the table to pat the top of Trissa's clenched fists. "Trissa, I'm going to assume from the way you speak that you know something of abusive relationships."
She lowered her head to avoid Augusta's horrified gaze. "Yes."
"In your family?"
"Yes."
"And Cole... Nicholas has told you nothing of his background."
"I know he's moved around a lot. He never speaks of his family. He has a whole drawerful of photographs but none are of his family."
"I'm not surprised. He has spent his life destroying his memories of his family, and his memories, in turn, have almost destroyed him."
"They hurt him? The scars?" Trissa vividly remembered the scars. "Old battles. Long forgotten," he'd told her.
"Yes. His father was -- is -- severely disturbed, psychotic, and quite violent at times, with episodes of prolonged catatonia. He's hospitalized now and will be for the rest of his life. But that happened too late to save Nicholas and his family.
"The case was quite notorious for awhile, though I expect you are too young to remember it, Trissa, and maybe it would not have received the notice here that it did up north. Nicholas had two sisters and a brother, all younger. His mother was a loving woman who struggled to keep her family safe from her husband's increasingly frequent rages. But in the end, she was helpless. He isolated her from her own family by moving them to Michigan from Ohio. When she objected to his treatment, he locked her out of the house and made her sleep in the garage. She called the police a couple of times, but he had the children so frightened that they lied about what went on at home. They thought they were protecting her. Their father had told them that the police would lock her up for being a bad mother and running away.
"Nicholas, when he was nine, stole the little ones away and hid them in a neighbor's abandoned dog kenne
ls. He kept them warm and fed by breaking into homes and stealing blankets and food. He was afraid to go to anybody for help. He had no faith in adults. When they were found, it was Nicholas who was punished. He was placed in a boys' home for eight months. That confirmed to the other children what their father had threatened all along. He had them more tightly bound together than ever.
"I won't go into the worst of the abuse, but it took all forms. Nicholas was, in a way, the lucky one because he had a brief respite from it during his detention. By the time he was returned to his home, his mother had given up and sought her escape in prescription drug addiction. She spent nearly all her time sleeping. The oldest daughter, Valerie, had been forced to take her mother's place, in all ways possible."
Trissa shuddered and put her face in her hands.
"I think she's heard enough, Doctor," Augusta said.
"No, if it will help Nicholas, I have to hear it. Go on."
"Though there were periods of relative calm, Duncan Brewer eventually became so sick that he was no longer able to keep up the facade necessary to work and earn a living. He was fired from a series of jobs. The last occurred just before Thanksgiving when Nicholas was thirteen. Duncan drank for three days straight but demanded that a Thanksgiving dinner be prepared as if they were a Norman Rockwell painting family. Nicholas and Valerie tried but Duncan was not satisfied. He flew into a rage, smashed up the house, every dish, every stick of furniture. Then he killed them."
"No!" cried Trissa and Augusta together.
Fitapaldi pressed his fingers to his temples and nodded. "He killed them all. Or thought he had. He carried their bodies to a lake in the trunk of his car. Jill and Danny and his wife first. He took the bodies out to a duck blind and collapsed it on them. Then he came back for Valerie and Nicholas. Before he had a chance to dispose of their bodies, something spooked him, no one knows what, and he just let the brake go on the car and ran it into the lake. It was probably the cold water that saved Nicholas, slowed the bleeding. He lay, half-conscious, with his sister's body for hours, until some kids spotted the partially submerged car."
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