Trissa clung to Augusta for support. Both women's cheeks glistened with tears.
"We didn't do well by Nicholas even then. His physical wounds healed. A miracle, they called it. But grief and self-blame overwhelmed him, and he plummeted into a depression so severe that he had to be hospitalized to prevent him from harming himself.
"In that hospital, someone thought to try to work another miracle on him, and he underwent a series of experimental shock treatments. Imagine! On a thirteen year old! The treatments erased all memory of his childhood. Under the guardianship of the courts, he became a pawn, a guinea pig, treated with their drugs, experimental therapies, and shock treatments, until all but the most basic of his childhood memories were obliterated. He ceased to be Nicholas Brewer.
"That's when he became Cole. They thought to give him a new identity, a new life. But it didn't work. The memories return in bits and pieces. As Cole, he snatches on to them, like a lifeline. When he was eighteen, legally ready for the world, and no longer their responsibility, they released him. It was amazing that he was able to function at all.
"I came to know him because I work at a hospital where his father was committed for a time. When he remembers, Cole visits his father regularly. It seems a punishment he must put himself through. To keep himself remembering. And then one day, he'd just stop coming. For months we would hear nothing, then we might get a letter or a phone call from him, giving a new address, a new pseudonym. Cole Baker. Cole Baxter. Cole Burke."
"Nicholas Brewer."
"No, Nicholas is the name of the child Cole wishes he never was. He would never use that name, when he remembers."
"Might he someday become like his father? Is he dangerous?" Augusta asked.
"Augusta! No! How could you think that? He couldn't. I know Nicholas. He would never hurt -- could never hurt anyone like that." Trissa wanted to be with him at that very moment. She wanted to hold him and never let him go. It was more than his being sent to save her. They were sent for each other. No one else could understand each other's secret sorrows so well.
"I believe you are right, Trissa. Duncan Brewer is psychotic, completely dysfunctional. It is a disease for which the recovery rate is a scant five percent. Cole's disorder was not passed on from his father but induced by his father's abuse and, I'm convinced, the shock treatments -- though many would dispute me on that. For all I've known of Cole, he would sooner die than be the cause of another's suffering. His whole life shows that pattern. The many ways he tried to protect his brother and sisters, taking beatings for them, covering up for them against their father.
"But he does fear it -- becoming like his father. In the past, he has isolated himself from human contact so that no one would get close enough to become a victim should that happen."
"But Dr. Fitapaldi," said Augusta, "Nicholas is a charming, personable man. He has become a part of my family. He married Trissa."
"Yes. That surprised me. But then I never really met Nicholas."
"What do you mean?"
"Nicholas was lost. To the tragedy. To the shock treatments. Cole had buried all that was painful to him, the fact of being Nicholas too, long before I met him. It was the only way he could survive all that abuse, the memory of all that pain, to shut it off in various compartments so that Nicholas has a little, Cole a little more. As if he sensed that knowing the horrible whole of his tragedy would destroy him, he's sheltered his sanity in the only way he could."
"Sanity?" asked Augusta shakily. "Does he need... must he be..."
"Locked away? He is not insane, Mrs. Blackburn. Though I am sure such a life as he has had would have driven a weaker man to that. It would have been easy enough to escape into madness. It was almost expected of him. Instead, through a combination of intelligence, creativity, and will, Nicholas Brewer's mind grasps at survival, defending itself with periodic bouts of amnesia, a loss of self, a surrender of the whole in favor of the parts. I believe that in a desperate scramble to survive, Nicholas has pieced together a highly structured form of traumatic neurosis, shell shock, or posttraumatic stress. He seeks a way to buffer himself from real life but never to withdraw from it completely, as many with less reason than he would have. But the most important thing is that Nicholas -- Cole is a survivor. He'll survive this."
"What can I do for him?" asked Trissa, wiping her tears away with the palms of her hands.
"Do you love him?"
"Yes. Oh, yes."
"Good, because you will need that and more. He will not remember you. You are part of Nicholas' memory, not Cole's. Cole may reject you. He may do things to force you away from him. He shuns human attachments. He thinks himself unworthy of them. But if you love him, if you stick by him, you may be able to reach that part of him he hides so well and bring it to the surface. If that happens, he may be on his way to becoming whole once again.
Chapter Sixteen
Trissa rested her forehead against the cold, metal bed rail and watched Nicholas -- Cole -- sleep. Her eyes burned with the salt of her tears and every muscle in her own body ached with fatigue. In the hours since Dr. Fitapaldi had left, Cole had not stirred, or muttered, or moaned with pain.
The nurses who came to check his vital signs and change his IV bottle seemed to smile a little more. They had lost the cool distance Trissa imagined they must have to maintain with a patient they would lose. Nicholas' thick lashes lay against cheeks that were pinker now, and when she stroked them with the backs of her fingers, they seemed warmer.
Her long discussion with Fitapaldi had caused her to miss Bryant Edmonds before he went on duty. So now she would have to wait until Dr. Cummings arrived for his rounds to find out if the improvement she saw was more than wishful thinking. She did not know if she could will her exhausted body to stay awake that long. She scooted her chair a bit closer and lowered the rail. She lay her cheek on Nicholas' hand and dozed.
"You should be at home in bed. You won't help him by making yourself ill." Bryant Edmonds' tone was dryly efficient, a prescription delivered. "He's out of danger now. The chart looks good. I could drive you home if you want. I'm on my way out."
Trissa raised her head and rubbed her eyes. "Dr. Edmonds. It's so late. I thought you'd already left. Thank you for the good news and the offer, but I want to be here when he wakes."
"I figured, so I brought you this." He held out a couple of danish rolls he had hidden behind his back. "They'll be in with coffee and juice in just a minute. I have a friend in the kitchen."
She smiled and took a peach-filled roll. "I am hungry. Thank you."
"May I join you?"
"Yes, if you like."
He settled in a chair near the window. She patted Nicholas' hand then moved her chair back so she could talk quietly with Bryant. He spoke first. "I wondered about this Dr. Fitapaldi you talked to last night."
Trissa shrugged. She and Fitapaldi had worked out a story. It did not include informing everyone about Nicholas' alarming background. "He's an old friend. He knew Nicholas in Michigan years ago. He was in town and came to visit."
"Yet I see his name on the chart. He received permission to consult on the case." Bryant picked four raisins out of his cinnamon danish and set them on the windowsill. After inspecting the roll closely, he took a bite out if it.
Trissa watched him repeat the process for his second bite before she responded to his comment. "Is that unusual? I told you, he's an old friend."
He looked up from his roll and studied her over the rim of his glasses. "He's a psychiatrist, Trissa."
"I know that," she answered without emotion.
He frowned and brushed cinnamon sugar off his chin. "Did the police catch who did this to him yet?"
"No."
"Do you know?"
"I have my suspicions."
She was amused to see his perplexity turning to exasperation as he failed to fluster her with his questions. "What kind of man is this, Trissa? Why has he come in here twice in a month's time beaten and battered, this time
to near death? Where did all his scars come from? The man is even missing two toes, for Christ's sake!"
She glanced back at Nicholas sleeping so peacefully at the moment, and she smiled fondly at him, knowing he would excuse her next understatement. "He's had a hard life."
"I've worked two years in the ER and rarely saw anybody as banged up as he is. Anybody that survived, that is."
"Dr. Fitapaldi said he was a survivor."
As many as twelve raisins stood at parade rest on the windowsill by now. Bryant added three more to the display. "And this is the guy you want to pretend to be married to?"
"I don't pretend."
"Then I'd advise you to stay out of the way of shrapnel and flak. Sometimes it's the innocent bystander who is hurt worst of all."
"That won't happen to me. Nicholas is teaching me how to be a survivor, too."
"Dr. Edmonds?" an orderly stuck his head in to door to inquire.
"Yes."
"The kitchen sent up juice and coffee for you. Do you want it in here?"
"Yes, bring it in." He watched as Trissa wrinkled her nose at the steaming cup offered her. "Too strong?"
"No, I like it half cream is all. They never leave enough room in the cup."
Bryant took a deep gulp from his own cup and refilled it with some from Trissa's cup. "There, will that do?"
"Yes, that will help."
"There are other kinds of help I could offer," he said as their fingertips touched briefly in the exchange of cups.
"Help for Nicholas?"
"Help for you."
She smiled blandly. "I appreciate the help you've given already. The daily reports. The sweet rolls."
"That's not what I meant," he growled.
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Are you?" He swallowed the last of his coffee and stood. "I have to get home now. It's been a rough night. Good luck. To both of you."
"Bye, Bryant."
It was the first time she'd called him that, she realized. It was a slip. "May I speak to you out in the hall for just a second?" he asked. She set down her cup and followed him. Before she had a chance to suspect what he was up to, he cupped his long fingers around her chin and kissed her, full and wet, on the lips. "Bye, Trissa."
Keeping her face a flat mask, she wiped his kiss off with the back of her hand. "Oh, before you go," she saw him square his shoulders hopefully at the soft sweetness in her voice. "Should I save your raisins for later, Dr. Edmonds?"
Like an exasperated bear chased out of a Yellowstone picnic area, he grunted and lumbered away.
*****
In his dreams, he held her and loved her as if the shadows of her past were long forgotten. Cole jolted awake. In his dreams--
But these were not his dreams...dancing in the facets of an emerald, making love to the rhythm of pattering water and flickering candles... He squeezed his eyes tight until the pulsing colors on his eyelids blocked the memory of the dream. When he opened them again, she was there, leaning over him, smiling.
"Cole? Are you feeling better?"
"Hmmm? Yes... uh..."
"Trissa," she whispered. "My name is Trissa..."
"I know. I just...The pain made me--"
"Brewer."
"Brewer?"
"Mrs. Nicholas Brewer."
"Ohhh," he groaned and closed his eyes again. Nicholas had done it this time. This was not an entanglement that was as easily unraveled as a job he didn't know how to do or a key to a car he couldn't find. A wife. What would he do about a wife?
"Cole?"
She called him Cole. It confused him to hear his name from her lips. Nicholas. Nicky. Nick. Those were the names she might know him by. "Why do you call me that?"
"It's all right. I know."
"You know what?"
"Everything. Fitapaldi told me."
He laughed, a dry, mirthless hack. "No one knows everything. Not Fitapaldi. Not even me." He would have turned away from her then but the cervical collar restricted him. He shut his eyes to her but felt her warmth as she drew closer and placed a light kiss on his forehead.
"Don't do that," he said, touching the back of his hand to the searing brand of her lips on his brow. "I don't like it."
"But I do, Cole."
"Nevertheless, we are strangers."
"Yes, I guess we are." She backed away from him. He ignored the grief in her eyes. He couldn't help that. She could not have Nicholas back. How could he be sorry for that and survive?
"Cole, I--"
"For the sake of appearances, it would be best if you called me by the other name."
"Appear... appearances?" she stammered, biting her lip and pressing the edge of her finger to the corner of each eye. "Yes. Yes, I understand. For appearances." The word itself seemed to give her pain. She tried to nod it away. He heard the catch in her throat when she spoke again. "Nicholas, I'm sorry my father hurt you so. You shouldn't have gone. If I had known what you were planning--"
"Don't cry," he said brusquely. "I don't remember any of that. Sometimes there is a benefit in forgetfulness."
"But the pain," her fingers stretched out to touch him. He warned her off with his frown.
"The pain is nothing. It's more reliable than breathing." Seeing the puzzlement on her face, he added, "To let you know you're alive."
An aide came in bearing the dinner tray, his first real meal since Friday.
"Will you need help with this?"
"I'll help him, thank you." The girl who was his wife lifted the metal lids revealing a cream soup, mashed potatoes, something that might be stewed chicken. A study in off-white. He saw a fleeting tautness in her jaw as she grimaced at the food then turned to him and boldly lied. "Looks delicious. I'll bet you're hungry."
"And I'll bet I still am afterwards. Are there any utensils? A straw?"
"A straw?"
"Yeah, why dirty the flatware for this? Anyway, I may have need of the knife later. To slit my wrists."
She winced. "Don't! Don't even joke about that, Nicholas."
When she thought he wasn't looking, she slipped the knife from the tray into her sweater pocket. "Do you want to sit up? I can crank up your bed."
"Yes, please. It might make dinner easier."
He held his breath and masked the pain that came when he bent at the waist. "That's good enough," he finally had to gasp.
"Oh! Should I let it down some?"
"No, I'll be all right in just a minute." He pressed his hand to his side while the pain gradually faded. The look of distress on her face was worse than the twinge in his gut. "Do you plan to watch me eat?" he asked sourly.
"I-I was going to help you."
"I have managed to feed myself for some twenty-five years. I don't need your help."
"Oh." She looked as if he'd slapped her. "I'll take a walk then."
"Why don't you go home? I assume the dark circles under your eyes are not normal for you. Haggardness would not be his style." Cole did not have the courage to look at her again, so he would not see her flinch as his insults hit their mark. He lifted a forkful of the white, lumpy stuff to his mouth. It was tuna, not chicken. He curled his lips in disgust and set it down.
She picked up her purse and a book from the windowsill and walked toward the door. "You won't push me away whatever you do or say," she said quietly. "I love Nicholas. I love you, Nicholas. I won't give you up."
After she was gone, he took a few stabs at the mashed potatoes then shoved the tray aside. His last clear, waking memory was of a November blizzard and sliding into death in a snow bank by the side of a road. But he had not been lucky. It had not been death at all that found him on that desolate highway. It was Nicholas, the thief of time. Now he, too, had deserted, leaving the encumbrances of a wife and a history Cole did not know.
Everything, she said. Fitapaldi told her everything. He would have to ask Fitapaldi to tell the same to him. Why should he always be the last to know?
"Mr. Brewer?" Cole looked up to see a round,
florid face thrust into his room. "You up? Detective Chancellor, St. Louis Police Department. We need to ask you a few questions?"
"Come in." He had the sinking feeling that a part of his missing history was about to be revealed to him.
"We've been here before. This here is my partner, Detective Haskell." Chancellor was the older of the two. His partner had a skim of a mustache on his long upper lip. Both detectives wore ill-fitting suits. Chancellor's was baggy and brown, Haskell's gray had frayed cuffs that sagged at the heels. "But last time, you were dead to the world, so to speak."
"As good a way to describe it as any I have thought of."
"The docs say you'll recover. That's good news."
"Yes, I understand they hate to lose patients. Too much paperwork."
"Ha! That's true enough. Same holds true for us. We're investigating a death right now, as a matter of fact, and already there's been a flood of coroner's reports, witness accounts, evidence sheets, you name it, to keep track of. That's why we're here, you see. We have a bit of evidence to pin down. Maybe it's a clue. Maybe it isn't. But we can fill in one more blank on the report if you'll help us out. He pulled a brown envelope out of his brief case. "Is this your wallet, Mr. Brewer?" A black leather wallet slid out of the envelope to the blanket at Cole's knees.
Cole picked it up and opened it. "It has my name in it."
"Yes. Would you want to guess where it was found?"
"I did not even know it was missing. I have not been myself lately." It was amazing how you could tell the truth even when you had no idea what it was.
"Where was the last place you think you had it?"
"I don't know. In my pocket, I guess."
Haskell, the young one, who had been silently probing his teeth with a toothpick to this point, glared at him. "Nobody likes a smart ass, Brewer. Where did you have it last?"
"Thursday," he tossed off the day that he had gathered from overheard conversations had been the day of his beating.
"I asked where, not when."
"I don't remember."
"Like to try the backyard of 3303 Christian Avenue?"
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