by Alicia Scott
The shadows seemed to have magically reappeared beneath her eyes. She had the tight look of a woman sporting one helluva migraine.
"How are you doing?" he asked after a minute.
"No one remembers anything from ten years ago," she stated flatly. "The whole world has Alzheimer's."
"It's seven o'clock. Most places are closed. Why don't we call it a night?"
"We can try the hospitals. They're still open."
"You haven't eaten all day, and I'm tired of soup. We'll go out, grab a quick meal. The hospitals will still be there when we're done."
"Just a few more calls."
"Tamara—"
She was already reaching for that list, waving him away. C.J. had had enough. He crossed the room and took the list from her.
She finally looked up. For a moment, she appeared simply rebellious, then her gaze broke. "I have to do this," she said abruptly. "I just … have to do this. Otherwise I'm just going to sit here, losing my mind. C.J.…"
"I know, sweetheart, I know. But you're wearing yourself out. You can't keep doing this to yourself. The human body isn't infallible."
She chewed her lower lip. For a moment, she looked curiously vulnerable. "Am I too intense?" she whispered. "Too much?"
C.J. sat down beside her and placed his hands on her shoulders. The muscles in her neck were already rock hard with tension. He thought about what she'd said earlier regarding Patty—how after her mother's death she'd needed to feel loved again, accepted again, because it was impossible to lose a parent and not wonder if it was somehow your fault.
"Tamara, you are absolutely perfect just the way you are. In fact, you are so perfect, I want to make sure you eat and sleep so you will live perfectly forever."
She finally granted him a small smile. "All right. You made your point."
He tilted up her face. "Tamara, I care about you very much."
He said the words softly. He contemplated saying even more, but the uncertainty on her face was enough to quiet him. It was hard to keep the words in, though. He felt this big warmth in his chest, an unbelievable tenderness. He wanted to crush her against him and protect her forever, and he loved her precisely because she would never let him do that. She would always push, always challenge, always need to stand on her own feet. At the same time, she would need to know he was there beside her, because even if it was hard for her to admit, she did need him. And she did care.
"What if I go pick up food and let you make just a few more calls?" he suggested. "In return, when I come back with food, you have to stop and actually eat it."
She eyed the long list. "Do you think … do you think it's safe to split up?"
He considered it for a moment. "Yes. At this point, you've already been arrested for murder, and frankly, the evidence against you is pretty good. Your untimely demise would actually raise questions and leave the senator worse off. So yeah, since you're probably going to jail as a murderess, you're safe."
"Lucky me."
"We'll figure it out."
She sighed. "All right. If you return with food, I'll take a break. It's not like the calls are producing anything, anyway."
"Oh, yeah? Wait until I get my phone bill."
"I'll repay you," she said immediately.
"Sweetheart, I can handle the phone bill." He picked up his coat lying over the back of one of the chairs. "You have about twenty minutes. Make it good." Then he was gone.
* * *
The twenty minutes didn't make a difference. But she did manage a couple of bites of the General Tsao's chicken he ordered. Afterward, they curled up on the couch and just sat in silence for a long, long time. He could feel the tension still in her. He could tell that her thoughts were a million miles away, but when he asked her, she just shrugged.
At nine o'clock, they turned off the lights and went to bed. He didn't try to make love to her. He just held her against him, trying to will her to sleep. It took her several hours to relax. Then he woke up to her jerking limbs, as she twitched in the throes of a nightmare and called her parents' names.
He held her against his chest as she sobbed quietly in her sleep. He kept holding her when she whispered, "I'm sorry, Donald."
And when she climbed out of bed shortly after that and didn't return, he stayed in the dark shadows of the bedroom and did his best to let her go.
Chapter 12
« ^ »
"That was Sheriff Brody."
C.J. hung up the phone as Tamara raised her head expectantly in the living room. It was 9:00 a.m., but from what he could tell, Tamara had been awake ever since leaving his bed at three in the morning. She wore only his white T-shirt, her long, slim legs framing the map she had spread out before her. Her scars stood out prominently on her left ankle. More thick, smooth skin marred her knee. Her thick sable hair was a disheveled mess.
"Did he learn something?" Her hand was frozen in midair, bearing a little blue flag she was using to mark the map.
"He said his deputies made the rounds. No one in your hotel saw anything."
Tamara stabbed the dark blue flag into the map with more force than necessary. "How the hell does that work, anyway?" she said sourly. "In this day and age, Big Brother is always watching. We are knee-deep in fellow humanity, having to constantly memorize rules of engagement so we don't offend our neighbors, while computers compile databases on every facet of our lives. For God's sake, I go to the grocery store and those damn bar codes tell some market researcher whom I've never met what brand of feminine hygiene I buy. And yet, when you truly need assistance, nobody has seen anything." She stabbed the map with a second blue flag and twisted. "That's ridiculous!"
C.J. hunkered down beside her. This close, she appeared even more frayed around the edges. He ducked his head until he could catch her gaze. "What are you doing, Tamara?"
"Narrowing our search." She pounded the Chamber of Commerce list beside her. "Places that don't remember anything or don't know anything get a blue flag." She slapped the map of Arizona. "So lookie here, Scottsdale is almost obliterated, Phoenix almost obliterated. Maybe you're right about Nogales. He could've just driven the car into Mexico and junked it there. A couple of teenagers probably fell on it like a pack of wolves and ripped it down into salable components. Better than tossing a corpse into a wood chip machine."
"Okay, Tamara, that's enough." He grabbed her hand and, before she could argue, pulled her to her feet. "You're coming with me."
"I have work to do!"
"No, you don't. You're exhausted, grumpy and about as entertaining as the Grim Reaper. You call a hospital now and they'll patch you through to the psycho ward without a second opinion."
"I have been arrested for murder. What kind of humor should I be in?"
"Throw these on." He tossed her a fresh pair of black sweatpants. "We're going outside, and I don't want our shadow staring at your bare legs. Then I'd be forced to beat him up. I am the jealous type." He grinned as charmingly as he could, though he was also tense.
Tamara yanked up the sweatpants. "I want to make my calls!"
"In a minute, dear, in a minute." He dragged her outside while she continued to shoot daggers at him with her eyes. He didn't really know what he was doing. He was a former marine, a man more comfortable with action than words. He didn't read much that wasn't related to racing cars or guns and ammo—he didn't even watch TV talk shows—but he was a bartender, and he supposed all bartenders learned some proficiency in counseling. He hoped so.
He stopped in front of the punching bag hanging from the towering pine tree in his backyard. It was old, covered in places by gray duct tape and brick red from years of absorbing Arizona dust. The sky yawned clear blue above them. The fall sun was hot and fierce.
"Here you go. Let it rip."
Tamara stared at him blankly. "You want me to hit a bag?"
"Yep. I'll hold it, you smack it for all you're worth."
"C.J., I have much more important things—"
"Tamara, hit
the damn bag." C.J. got behind it, planting one leg behind him for balance and positioning the bag against his neck and shoulder. "Come on, young lady. You're in a foul mood. You want to be able to control everything, to hold your life in perfect order so it will never fall apart again. Instead, the senator has ruined everything, once more. He's yanked your life from you, left you framed for murder and without a leg to stand on. You're smart, you're good, you tried so hard to be careful, and none of it mattered. The senator has you right where he wants you and you are angry."
"Yes!"
"Hit the bag."
She scowled, then finally gave the bag a little slap. Weighing more than a hundred pounds and anchored by C.J.'s body, it didn't even rock. "Yeah, you're a tough girl. The senator destroys your family and you hate him only enough for a baby slap?"
"Damn you." She jabbed her fist harder. The bag still didn't move, but she popped three knuckles. Her face gained color. Her eyes went gold. Sweat bloomed across her forehead, and her loose hair waved wildly around her face. He could feel the intensity building inside her.
"Curl your fingers into a fist, thumb on the outside. Now try again, step into it."
"I don't want to hit a bag—"
"The senator framed you for murder. Killed an innocent man. Destroyed your reputation."
She hit the bag with a solid thwack. This time, the force traveled through the bag, and made C.J. grunt.
"That's it. Up on your toes. Dance like a butterfly, sting like a bee, baby."
"This is stupid." She hit the bag again, then again. Despite her words, he could see her homing in on the punching bag with the intent to kill.
"Come on," he murmured. "Don't hold back. You can't hurt the bag, you can't hurt me. So go ahead, beat the crap out of it. Show it how you really feel about losing your family, being left alone, having no one to even visit you in the hospital."
She hit the bag harder than he would've thought she could. Better.
"You're angry, Tamara. You have so much anger, you never let go, do you?"
"I do not!" Thwack.
"You're angry at the man who killed your family."
"Yes!" Thwack.
"You're angry at yourself for surviving."
She didn't say anything. She lashed out with her fist.
"You're angry at your family for dying."
Her face fell. Her lower lip trembled. She hit the bag hard.
"And you're even angry at me, aren't you, Tamara?"
"No," she whispered, but she was pummeling the bag.
"Yeah, sweetheart, you are. Because I love you and you know that I do. It scares the living daylights out of you. And it makes you feel even guiltier, because with me, you're actually living, and you've done a pretty good job of avoiding that until now."
She didn't say anything, but he heard her gasping for breath. Her face contorted. She beat at the punching bag in a small torrent.
"Tamara, tell me about Donald."
"No," she cried. She stopped hitting the bag and kicked instead. Then she really lit into it, like a small child having a temper tantrum. C.J. kept nodding, encouraging her all he could. He didn't know if it was healthy or mature or sensible. He just knew that on bad days, the punching bag worked best for him. And each year on the anniversary of his mother's death, he woke up, came outside and beat the crap out of this bag until his arms could no longer move and his lungs could no longer breathe. Sometimes, when he woke up in the middle of the night having dreamt of Iceland, he came out here at two or three in the morning and did the same.
Tamara was still swatting the bag. Her breath had become labored, her movements sluggish. Still, she kept fighting. He dug in his heels, held on to the bag tighter and weathered the storm.
Finally, she fell into the bag, hugging it for support. Her breath came in heaving gasps.
C.J. took her sweaty, exhausted form into his arms. She leaned against him completely, her limbs shaking, her red cheeks covered in moisture.
"Come on," he whispered. "Sit with me. Let's talk."
Tamara followed him to the ground wordlessly. She felt drained, like an exhausted child, searching for a safe, dark place to curl up and pretend the world didn't exist. C.J. cradled her against his body. She would pull away from the big lout, but she didn't have the energy.
"How are you doing, sweetheart?"
"I'm tired."
"I bet you are. Honey, how long have you had the nightmares?"
"Forever."
"They're worse in Sedona, aren't they?"
"I work a lot in New York," she said weakly. "There isn't much time for sleep, anyway."
"Ah, that's how you do it."
"Do what?"
"Avoid," he said matter-of-factly. "Repress. Did they ever talk to you about grief counseling?"
She pushed away. She was tired. Her arms hurt. She didn't want to talk about the past. Why did everyone want to rehash the past? "They recommended it," she said curtly. She tried to rise to her feet, but her leg muscles wouldn't cooperate. She ended up just sitting a little ways back from C.J., who didn't try to pull her closer. Why did that disappoint her?
"But you didn't think you needed it?"
"I wanted to move on, darn it. Physical therapy, all the surgeries, took so long. Sometimes it seemed like the car accident had lasted forever. When I finally had the last operation on my knee, I just wanted out. I got on with my life."
"You threw yourself into school, then work. Built a pretty fancy life and decided that was good enough."
"I've done well," she insisted. She had. She didn't want to lose sight of that even if she was discovering all sorts of new potent emotions these days. Even if some dark, feral part of her had truly wanted to beat the hell out of the punching bag. Had needed it.
"You've done very well, Tamara. Maybe too well."
"Don't say that. That's not fair. I worked hard for my career. I could've given up on life, instead."
C.J. was quiet. It took her a second to realize that he was uncertain. She was used to him seeming to know exactly what he was doing. "I bought two books yesterday," he announced abruptly.
"Books?"
"Books. And trust me, I don't read books very often. I leave that sort of thing to Brandon. But the Chinese restaurant was next to a bookstore, so while they cooked the food, I paid a visit. I … uh … well, I picked up one book on surviving and one book on post-traumatic stress disorder."
Tamara didn't move. She felt shocked, hollow and, for some reason, guilty, as if she'd just been discovered doing something bad. C.J. knew too much about her. Even the weak, ugly, vulnerable places she tried to hide. Her gaze latched on to the ground.
"Why … why did you do that?"
"Because I love you."
She swallowed heavily. My God, she was being ripped apart. She turned away.
C.J. suddenly cradled her cheek with his fingers. "Tamara, I'm no good at this. I know you've been through something traumatic, and I understand a bit because I lost my family, too. But you are going through something more complex. I'm watching you tear yourself apart, run yourself down, self-destruct, and I want to help you, but I'm not an expert in these things. I thought … I thought maybe we'd go through the books together. Would you be willing to do that?"
She couldn't speak. She was going to cry. And not angry tears or frustrated tears or sad tears. Good tears. When had she last shed good tears?
"Tamara, I love you. Please say something."
"I'll go through them," she said, expelling the words in a rush, some part of her suddenly afraid he'd rescind the offer. She clutched his hand. "C.J.…" She couldn't get any more words out. Her throat was too tight. "C.J.," she repeated, then sighed.
His blue gaze was steady. He cupped her face with his callused palms. "Do you care about me?"
"Yes."
"Do you want to be with me?"
She whispered, "Yes."
"Good, good."
Her grip on his hand tightened. "My life is a mess," she s
aid abruptly, earnestly. "I have nightmares. Sometimes I am really angry for no good reason. I'm probably going to go to jail for a murder I didn't commit. My job is in New York. This is all insane."
"Sh." He broke off her tirade by settling her cheek against his throat and rocking her back and forth. "One thing at a time. I know what I'm getting into. I'm willing to take the plunge, anyway."
"You give me too much."
"That's love, sweetheart. That's just love."
She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around his neck. For a long time they remained holding each other beneath the vast Arizona sky, and it was enough.
* * *
Later, after showering, she pulled on one of his flannel shirts so she could be surrounded by his scent. She padded across his home, touching his Chinese screen, his table, his sofa, as if they were all extensions of his body and she was seeing them for the first time. She cooked pasta in his kitchen while he discussed next steps with Gus. She set the table with her gaze drifting more and more often to him.
She watched the way his lean, blunt fingers tapped the receiver while he talked on the phone. She admired the way he would pace the Navajo rug as he spoke, his whipcord body barely holding its own power in check. She liked the way he would glance up, catch her gaze and automatically smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
They ate in companionable silence as the sun set, the map sitting on the coffee table in the living room and covered with enough blue flags to indicate the futility of their search. Later, Tamara curled against C.J. on the sofa, and as she watched the sky fade to black and the stars twinkle to life on a velvet matting, she told him about Donald and the friends she didn't have and the holidays she'd never learned how to survive.
He traced small patterns on the back of her hand and held her as she talked.