by Nikki Soarde
He was startled to realize her arm had slipped around his waist and her fingers had hooked into the waistband of his crisp linen shorts. “Like what, exactly? What did they want you to be that you couldn’t?”
“For one thing, they wanted me to be slender and willowy and feminine like my mother. But when I was sixteen I had an appetite like a horse and I was anything but willowy. Even at size five I don’t have the gentle feminine curves that my mother and sister-in-law somehow manage to maintain.”
They walked past a wide window display of lace bras and frilly underwear. It struck Luke as a little incongruous that a lingerie boutique should be situated in the same block as leather stores and a tack shop. But apparently that was Calgary. He swept his eyes over the buxom plastic model in the window, and then rested his gaze back on Marnie. “I think you’re feminine enough.”
Her arm squeezed his waist. “You’ll have to see them to understand what I mean. I was never comfortable in the wispy fabrics and floral prints my mother thought were necessary to enhance a woman’s charms. I was always more comfortable in jeans and running shoes. Even when I wore skirts they were usually denim or, at my most feminine, a light cotton.” She tugged at the fabric of her indigo blue skirt and awarded him a sly grin. “But never in a floral print or, God forbid, a solid pink or pastel.”
“But why did they care what you wore?” He was feeling frustrated by the seeming pointlessness of such a conflict. “That doesn’t make any difference to who you are.”
“To a lot of people what you wear speaks volumes about who you are.” As if on cue a motley crew of punkers with purple hair and nose rings sauntered around the corner of a building on the opposite side of the street. “See? Lots of people will look at them and say, ‘There goes trouble.’ They may not be bad kids, but what they wear does make a statement about what they want the world to see. My mother thought that the way I dressed and carried myself was an insult to everything my father taught and stood for.”
“Your father was a teacher?”
“No, no.” She chuckled softly. “Sorry. I guess I never told you this part. My father was the founder of the Crusaders Church of Calgary. He was founder, pastor, teacher and mentor for that movement for more than twenty years. And I didn’t fit into his plans or his vision for the church.”
“Because you weren’t feminine enough?” That thought sent a surge of anger through Luke that startled him. The thought of someone telling Marnie she wasn’t good enough—in whatever capacity—kindled a spark of rage and indignation.
“In a way. But more because I wouldn’t conform to his other ideals. One of the basic tenets of my father’s philosophy was that man is the lord of his home. He firmly believed that the man was meant to be the master over his wife and children, that he had the final say in all decisions, and that, while he had a responsibility to love his wife and children and treat them with respect and dignity, he had the God-given mandate to be their master.”
“Why?”
“There are a number of Bible verses to back up that theology, I’m afraid. My father wasn’t exactly unique in that way of thinking.”
“Oh.” That hardly explained it to Luke’s satisfaction, but Marnie seemed to have more to say so he let her lead the conversation.
“Don’t get me wrong, there was a lot more to his theology than just that. His church did a lot of good for a lot of people. He preached forgiveness and tolerance. He believed in sharing wealth and sharing his faith without being judgmental or self-righteous. He was good to us and I know he loved me.”
“But?”
“But I could never get past the notion that, to him, I was a second-class citizen. I wasn’t allowed to have a say in any decisions of the church. I wasn’t allowed to have a meaningful part in the family publishing business. I wasn’t allowed to question anything my father said—to have open dialogue about something as insignificant as when I would be allowed to start dating or what kinds of books I brought into the house.”
They walked in silence. Luke waited.
“It was that much harder because I watched my brother get closer and closer to him. He became my father’s right hand in the publishing business, and even held a couple of offices in the church. As he grew they became friends. Equals. Don was allowed to question—even encouraged to. He was taught to make decisions and take on responsibilities. He was taught to believe he had something to contribute—that he was worth something.”
Luke heard a hitch in her breathing and he squeezed her shoulder in an automatic response that was more reflex than conscious decision.
“I wanted that too. I wanted to be close to him and for him to respect me. But the only way my father would truly accept me as part of his world was if I were to get married, bear children, kowtow to my husband and become a good little wife and mother…and daughter.”
“But you wanted more.”
She ripped her arm from around his waist and stopped in the middle of the street, her eyes fierce and her stance defiant. “Yes, Goddammit! I wanted more. I wanted an education and a career and a life. I wanted to count for something in more ways than as a chattel for my husband and a breeder for his spawn.”
Luke just stood there, watching her, being there for her and understanding as she vented angers that must have burned inside her for years.
“And because of that he shut me out. He barely spoke to me after I left home. He barely acknowledged that I existed.”
He could hear tears in her voice, but her eyes remained dry as her gaze lifted and riveted to his own. “And that hurt. And then I hated him for hurting me. And then he died and I hated him for doing that before we could talk about it and I could make him love me again.”
Luke ached for her. He ached for the clenched fists and the trembling chin. He ached so deeply that he felt it like a weight on his chest and a hollowness in his stomach. He didn’t know what to say.
He didn’t know what to say but he knew what to do. He wrapped his arms around her and drew her in tight, resting his chin on her head and lacing his fingers through the thick mane of chocolate-colored hair. He lowered his mouth and pressed a kiss to her forehead. He was oblivious to people passing them on the street, slowing to stare or speeding up to put distance between themselves and the odd pair in a tight clench of bodies and limbs.
He rubbed her back in slow circles and was pleased to feel her arms tighten around his waist. Her breathing slowed and at last he murmured next to her ear, “Thank you.” He felt her giggle but continued holding her tight.
“What on earth are you thanking me for? I’m the one who went on a rampage.”
He closed his eyes and soaked in the warmth and scent of her. “Thank you for letting me help you—for letting me make things better for you for a change.”
She nodded and, reluctantly, he let her pull away from him. “You make me feel better all the time, Luke. Just being with you makes me feel better.”
He smiled broadly, the words spreading through him like hot fudge sauce over ice cream. “Really?”
She nodded her head and grabbed his hand. “Really.”
They continued walking and he felt the need to add, “Your parents were crazy, you know. If I had a kid I’d always let them be what they wanted. You can’t just be what somebody expects you to be. That would be like lying. And you don’t want your kids to lie, right?”
She squeezed his hand so tight he almost winced. “Right! Oh, God, Luke, I wish you could have said that to my father. I don’t think he would have had a comeback for that one.” She sighed and wrapped her arm around his waist. “I really don’t.”
They continued to walk in silence. Marnie led him away from downtown Calgary, and he watched the passing scenery with blatant fascination. A twenty-minute stroll brought them to the lapping waters of the Bow River.
Luke stopped. “Wow!”
Marnie smiled. “Yeah. Wow. It’s called Prince’s Island. It’s the jewel in Calgary’s crown. It’s a great place for walks or bik
ing or picnicking.”
“I wonder if it’s true.”
She frowned. “What?”
He chuckled. “I know it’s crazy. I remember the old saying that you never forget how to ride a bike…”
“But you’ve forgotten how to ride a bike.”
“Yeah. Or maybe I’d remember if I got back on, but I can’t remember ever being on one.”
With an arm around his waist she led him over the bridge that arched across the water to the little island sanctuary. Swaying willows and elegant birches dotted the landscape amidst beds of petunias and late-blooming tulips.
“Are you up for a walk around the island?” she asked suddenly. “If your leg’s bothering you…”
“No,” he said as his eyes roamed the horizon and drank in the sheer scale of it all. “Funny, but it doesn’t hurt at all.” He looked down at her. “You’re better than a cane any day. My feet hardly touch the ground.”
She lowered her eyes and smiled self-consciously as they strode along the path that made a lazy circuit around the island. They had almost made it back to the bridge when Luke finally did admit fatigue. They immediately headed toward Marnie’s house.
As they approached her street he was feeling deliciously spent, and was eagerly looking forward to flaking out on the couch while Marnie prepared a promised specialty for supper.
But as they rounded her corner he stopped. His eyes flitted across the jagged skyline that was visible in the distance just over the townhouse rooftops. The clouds hovered about the snow-covered peaks like downy halos. “When are you going to take me there?”
“Soon. I have one more week of holidays booked, so I thought we could head out Sunday night after we get Tiffany back to her parents.”
“And we’ll be staying right in the mountains?” She had already told him about the house in the Kananaskis that her great-aunt had left her when the woman had died three years earlier. Marnie had told him that its location an hour-and-a-half drive outside of the city made it impractical as a permanent residence, but that as a weekend retreat it was ideal.
The thought of touching such a vast expanse of untamed rocks and trees, lakes and rivers, sent a shiver of excitement down his spine. He felt drawn to those mountains—to their purity and rugged beauty. He felt as if touching them would somehow make him whole, fill up a space within him that seemed to be crying out for something. He couldn’t quite identify the void, and what it craved was elusive. But he felt as if that wilderness held the key to filling that deficiency.
“My place isn’t right in the mountains,” replied Marnie, “but it’s at the foot of them and it looks out over the Bow River. The Kananaskis area used to be a lot more remote than it is now, but it was developed quite a bit for the Olympics in 1988. Now it’s a popular tourist spot, but my place is nicely isolated. And we can take day trips into Banff and Jasper. Those are both national parks that are preserved and protected by the government.” She was obviously excited by the prospect of showing him her favorite haunts and sharing her passions with him. As she continued her sales pitch he felt himself being swept away by her enthusiasm.
“Banff has hot sulfur springs, a tram that takes you up the mountain, and lots of hiking trails. If you’re lucky you might see an elk or deer. There’s the glacier, and I was hoping we could go riding. And then—”
“Riding? As in horses?”
“Uh-huh. I’ve got a dude ranch for a neighbor, and I’ve gotten to know the owners pretty well. They sometimes let me take their horses on unsupervised rides. I’m sure they’ll let me bring a guest.” Her brown eyes twinkled. “Is that okay?”
“Yeah. I mean, sure.” He squeezed her shoulders. “I mean, wow! That all sounds incredible.”
“Good.” She was pleased. He could hear it in her voice and see it on her face as she dragged him on toward home. It continued to amaze him that his happiness seemed to have such a direct bearing on her own.
She was still chattering cheerfully, “I was hoping you’d love it as much as I do. But, of course, I don’t know of anyone who doesn’t absolutely adore the Rockies.”
They drew up short as Marnie’s front step came into view.
“Shit!” she muttered under her breath. “I had hoped to put him off until we could head out to the Kananaskis.”
Apparently, Luke’s nap on the couch would have to be postponed. The pudgy figure seated on the doorstep was about as welcome as a bad rash. But he couldn’t avoid Zennie, no matter how much he wanted to. “I really should talk to him. You promised.”
Her shoulders sagged as they surged forward again. “I know. I just hate to see your situation exploited. And I don’t want his digging to make you uncomfortable.”
He chuckled. “I am almost forty years old, you know. At least, they think I am. I won’t dissolve because some sleazy reporter asks me a few questions.”
Zennie stood and mopped his forehead as they approached.
“I know,” said Marnie so quietly that Luke had to strain to hear her. “I just can’t help being a little protective.”
“Me too,” whispered Luke.
“Isn’t this cozy?” said Zennie with a sly smile. “I wondered about the nature of this relationship.”
“We’re friends, Mr. Zennie,” said Marnie stiffly as she dropped her arm from around Luke’s waist. “Nothing more. And I don’t recall making this appointment.”
“No, of course not. You conveniently called me back only when I was out of the office.”
“I have no way of knowing your schedule. I called when I could.”
“Uh-huh,” sneered Zennie. “I’m sure nine-thirty at night was damn convenient for you.”
“I’ll talk to you,” interrupted Luke. Suddenly his fatigue felt unbearable and he just wanted to sit down and get this over with. “Let’s go inside.”
Zennie and Marnie continued to assess each other as Luke led them inside with the new key Marnie had just had made for him.
“Have a seat in the living room,” directed Marnie as she headed for the kitchen. “I’ll bring in some lemonade.”
Luke settled down at one end of the pale gray couch with the high arms and deep, plush cushions. He leaned against the arm and curled his legs up in the position that seemed to ease the stiffness that persisted in his injured leg. He rubbed his thigh muscle absently.
Zennie pulled the matching chair a little closer and plopped a small tape recorder down on the coffee table in front of him. He nodded toward Luke’s leg. “Do your injuries still bother you?”
“A little. Marnie helps me with some therapy, though, and it’s getting better.”
“Yeah,” said Zennie with a grin that set Luke’s teeth on edge. “I’ll bet she does.”
Marnie had stepped into the room with a tray of lemonade and potato chips. She almost dropped the tray on the coffee table in her haste to join the men. “I will thank you to refrain from making those types of insinuations, Mr. Zennie. Luke is here as my friend and nothing more. When he says I help him with physical therapy he means exactly that. I help him with exercises that are intended to limber up the muscles and tendons that were damaged by his injuries.”
Zennie seemed oblivious to the fact that he had been chastised. “Okay, can you fill me in on exactly what those injuries were?”
Luke shrugged and nodded toward Marnie, who had settled down beside him. “She knows that stuff better than me.”
Marnie rattled off the list of injuries as she filled the glasses and handed them to Luke and her guest. As an epilogue she added, “He’s scheduled for two more minor surgical procedures over the next few months to refine his nose and jawline. And then, of course, in another year the pins in his leg will have to come out.”
Zennie seemed dazed.
“Something wrong?” asked Luke.
“No—I mean—I guess I really didn’t have a grasp on the extent of what happened. The pictures were graphic but even they didn’t do it justice.”
“Pictures?” asked Mar
nie but Zennie ignored her and plowed on with more questions for Luke.
“Do you have any idea who did this to you or why?”
“No.”
“None?”
“No.”
“Are you unwilling to share that information because of the police investigation or do you really not remember?”
Marnie bristled. “Look, Zennie—”
Luke put a hand on Marnie’s arm as he interrupted the hostility that he could hear brewing in her voice. “Mr. Zennie,” he said evenly. “I’m not lying to you when I say I don’t remember things. Why don’t I make this a little simpler for you?”
He frowned as he considered what needed to be said.
“Yeah?” said Zennie impatiently.
“I don’t remember who assaulted me or why. I don’t remember my friends or my enemies. I don’t remember a mother or father, brothers or sisters. I don’t remember my age or my birthday. I don’t remember school—high school, grade school or kindergarten, for that matter. In fact, I don’t remember how to read. I don’t remember working. I don’t remember playing. I don’t remember the bed that I slept in as a child or the bed that I must have shared at one time with a wife.” He paused and picked up a glass to take a long, deep swallow of lemonade. “I barely remember sex, Mr. Zennie. I don’t remember my first kiss, or my first fist fight.”
Zennie’s face tensed at that reference, which was exactly what Luke had hoped. He didn’t like Zennie and he wanted him to be uncomfortable. He wanted him to squirm—just like Luke was squirming at that moment.
“I didn’t remember pizza until a few days ago when Marnie had some delivered for our supper. I don’t remember my first car and I don’t remember how to drive. I have a few other scars that I apparently had before this whole thing happened, but I don’t remember how I got them.” He took another sip from his glass and set it back down on the coffee table. “I don’t remember being happy or sad or in pain before the moment I woke up in intensive care. I have vague recollections of anger, but they figure that’s closely related to the experience that put me here. I have dreams that hint at things from my past, but they are confusing and disturbing. Essentially my life and everything that happened before that day two months ago is an enormous blank. It’s like there’s this huge brick wall between me and my past and no matter how much I stare at it or pick away at it I can’t get through it.” He studied Zennie. “Can you understand that?”