Don’t be silly, I scold myself. Of course he knows I might be watching.
As though my telepathic thought has beamed out, Don pauses and looks up at the window. I immediately melt into the shadows of the bedroom. My heart is thudding painfully.
If Don is human, then he’s unlike any human I have ever known.
What does this mean and what does it portend for me?
4
We are in my car, the one whose windshield is smashed into a matrix of broken glass. I have no choice. I can only thank my lucky stars that it suffered no worse damage. We have made a makeshift windshield out of transparent plastic bags and duct tape. It flaps loudly and unconvincingly, threatening to tear off at any moment in the wind.
It’s the reason I’m driving at thirty miles an hour. Moreover, the road is littered with fallen branches and trees. Now and then, I have to circumnavigate an obstacle by going around it.
Around us, every property bears the blows of last night’s terrible weather. Some homesteads have been primarily unaffected, like mine. Only their lawns and fields bear the litter of smashed flora. Other houses are impacted by trees which have crashed against their windows and walls. Cars and other vehicles are grounded in ditches and furrows, or smashed against barns and houses.
People are up and about, looking glum, clearing fallen trees off their property with chainsaws and hacksaws – one cut at a time. We pass a whole house which has been unroofed, leaving only its bare skeletal frame on top. A twinge of guilt scurries through me when I see this.
Mobile homes are completely crushed, and several trees have been splintered at their barks as though a monster has birthed within and clawed out into the world from their cores.
Don is beside me in the passenger’s seat, dressed in Kenneth’s old clothes. He looks good in them. Then again, he would look good even if you put him in a patchwork made out of old rags. The clothes don’t quite fit him as he is a much larger man than Kenneth. The T-shirt strains at his pectorals and biceps, the thin fabric threatening to rip at any moment. In fact, one such tear has occurred already at the front of his right sleeve. His nipples and muscle contours are so pronounced he might as well be wearing a wet T-shirt.
His lower body is far worse off. His jeans are now so tight that he is practically not breathing. The zip refuses to go all the way up and the bulge in his crotch is bursting at the seams.
Don is extremely uncomfortable, I know, but he flashes me a heavenly smile anyway. Did I mention that he has a gorgeous smile?
“Thank you for everything,” he says.
“No. Thank you. I wouldn’t have been able to clear everything away by myself.”
“I’m sure you would.”
“No, I really, really wouldn’t.”
As it is, the whole eight acres of my property has been stripped of major debris . . . in the span of a day. All the larger branches have been broken up and piled in one humungous heap. The wooden planks and metal from other people’s yards have also been placed there. Only the tinier branches, twigs and leaves are now left, and those would have to be swept away in the next few weeks, or just left there to rot in the loamy soil.
It is not a feat that could have been done by a single man in a single day.
I do not bring this up.
Don on the other hand seems to be very nonchalant about it, as if it is of no consequence. I’m very aware of him beside me – the way he drums his fingers on his thigh, the way he keeps examining every feature on the dashboard.
The radio is on, relaying news of the destruction. There were apparently two twisters snaking through the land – both were marked FE4 on the Enhanced Fujita tornado scale. Thousands of homes have been affected. Dozens of houses destroyed. The damage is estimated in the millions.
“Not good, huh?” Don says.
“I was lucky. We were lucky.”
He seems so out of place in his seat that I tentatively say, “Is anything wrong?”
Are your clothes affecting your oxygen level? (But of course I don’t say this aloud.)
“I just feel so strange,” he murmurs. “Like I’m in a different world. For instance, what do you call this vehicle?”
“Huh?”
“This vehicle we are travelling in. What do you call it?”
Taken aback, I reply, “Uh, a Ford.”
“Ford.” He savors the word.
We continue down the roads, surveying the devastation. According to the news, there has been one casualty reported so far – an old man trapped under a falling barn. A black van with tinted windows roars from the opposite direction and whooshes past us, causing me to spin the wheel and almost veer into a ditch. I have to slam on the brakes.
“Bastards,” I mutter.
“Badly steered Ford,” Don agrees.
“No, that’s a Mercedes-Benz van.”
“I thought you said it was a Ford?”
“I said the car I’ve driving is a Ford. That was a Merc.”
“Car?” He looks puzzled.
“The vehicle we are in. It’s called a car.”
“Then what’s a ‘Ford’?”
“A type of car.”
OK. He’s seriously strange. Is it possible for amnesia to hit so badly that he can’t even remember everyday things – like cars and the ability to be embarrassed by nudity?
The alternative is almost too incredible to contemplate. I’m a rational person, and I prefer to think there’s a rational explanation for everything. Everything, I’m sure, will be solved once we get to the police.
We enter the town, Don looking two parts as puzzled as he is anxious. I don’t blame him. If I can’t remember cars and Fords, I’d be worried too. The town is in havoc, although the buildings have relatively been spared. People are crowding stores, buying supplies and hardware equipment to mend their homes. Signboards are skewed or completely blown off. A broken fire hydrant gushes a continuous jet of silvery water, flooding the entire street.
I don’t think the police are going to have much time for us today, but we’ve got to try.
“Do you want to go to a hospital?” I ask Don. He looks healthy, but you never know. Concussions give amnesia and he could be having a brain hemorrhage for all I know.
I brace myself, wondering if he would ask me what a hospital is.
He frowns. “Hospital? No. I feel perfectly fine.”
He looks perfectly fine.
“I think we should get you checked out anyway,” I push on. “You never know about these head injuries. They can be incredibly deceptive.”
“Police first, and then the hospital,” he insists.
“OK. Whatever you say.”
“It’s because I really, really want to know who I am,” he adds.
“I don’t blame you.”
He seems to be appeased by this, though I can see he is still anxious from the way he grips the car door handle.
We go to the police station. It is as crowded as I expected. We have to wait a whole hour before someone sees to us. Meanwhile, Don gets plenty of stares from women and men alike, especially at his bursting crotch. I make a mental note to drop by Diesel before heading to the hospital.
The officer in question is a freckled young man with a nametag that says ‘P. Graham’.
“Nope,” he tells us. “The only ‘Missing Persons’ on our records are teenagers and elderly people. Your description doesn’t show up.” He looks up. “The good news is that you’re not a wanted criminal either.”
“That’s a relief, I’m sure,” I say sarcastically.
Don is unconvinced. “And no one has asked for me or reported me missing?”
“No one according to my computer which spans . . . ” P. Graham types several keys “ . . . the entire state. We’ll broadcast your photo on our web to the whole nation. I’m sure someone looking for you will find you. Don’t worry, these things ultimately match up.”
Don’s shoulders slump with disappointment. I reach out to pat his hand reassuringly.<
br />
“We can always go on TV,” I say.
“That’s an option,” P. Graham interjects. “It’s a nice thing you’re doing for him, Mrs. Mansfield.”
“It’s Ms.”
“Sorry.”
“No problem.”
Don has his face photo taken, like a criminal. When we exit the station, he says in a low voice, “I don’t know. I feel like I don’t belong here at all. No one is ever going to come for me.”
A pang of sympathy shoots through me. “We have to stay positive. It’s early days yet.”
He shakes his head. “I have no memory whatsoever of people and places. It’s a complete blank.”
“It will come back.” I sound more optimistic than I really am. Don is just too . . . strange for this world. He’s right in that sense. But it’s not something I will think about right now. “We’ll go to the hospital. But first, let’s get you some decent clothes.”
Decent is the magic word. We drop by at Gap’s, which is relatively empty because folks are out at other stores replenishing essentials. Clothes are not essential, I guess, except where Don is concerned.
As I suspected, the saleswoman can’t keep her eyes and hands off him.
“This suits you soooo well,” she gushes, touching his shirt-clad shoulder as she gazes at his stunning reflection in the changing room mirror.
I agree wholeheartedly. I can’t take my eyes off him as well. Wherever he came from, it would great if they manufactured more like him.
“We’ll take it. And those three pairs of jeans as well.”
Don’s eyes in the mirror regard me. “I don’t know how to thank you for this. I will pay you back once . . . well, you know.”
“It’s OK, there’s no need,” I say, my eyes misting a little.
The saleswoman swivels her eyes back and forth between us.
She says, “Okayyyy, I guess I better leave you guys alone now.”
As you should have over an hour ago, I want to say.
As she dives out of the confined changing room space, Don grins at me. I can’t help but grin back. A warm feeling suffuses my body, spreading all the way up to my cheeks.
Our next stop is the hospital. A middle-aged male doctor examines Don in the Emergency department behind some screens.
He motions me to come in while Don is still dressing.
“There’s nothing outwardly wrong with you,” he tells Don. “No bruises on the head, no wounds, no contusions. I’m not even convinced you had a concussion. But if you like, we can run a scan of your brain.”
Don looks uncertain. No doubt he’s thinking of the cost.
“I’ll think about it,” he says.
“Cost is not an issue,” I say.
“Yes, it is,” Don says.
Like the saleswoman before him, the doctor looks back and forth between us.
“Just think about it and let me know what you decide.” He turns to Don. “What you have is generalized amnesia, which is extremely uncommon. More often than not, it’s triggered by psychological stress – some major life event that happened to you – rather than an actual head injury. It can last for days in some people, months in others. We can start with some psychotherapy to help you recall your memories. But meanwhile, you will need a place to stay.”
“He can stay with me until he gets back his memories,” I quickly put in.
Don looks at me gratefully.
We make an appointment with the hospital’s psychology department for next week. But I can tell that Don is extremely worried. Not that I blame him in the least.
In the car, Don says, “I can’t imagine what could have happened to me to make me lose my memory like this. Why did I wake up all alone in the forest? Who am I and how did I end up here?”
I have no answers for him either, and so we are left to ponder this in silence. Don’s arm is crooked and his elbow is placed against the window. He rests his chin against his palm and stares wistfully out into the countryside. He presents such a picture of melancholy that I wish I can say or do something to make him feel better.
At home, I whip up some linguini with clams and shrimp. After we have eaten, Don insists on doing the dishes the old-fashioned way, until I point to the dishwasher – something he either obviously hasn’t seen before or whose function he cannot recall.
This time, he is visibly embarrassed.
“I’m sorry to be such a burden to you,” he says as he kneels to stack the dirty dishes in the dishwasher.
“You’re not a burden. Stop saying that.”
His gradual loss of confidence worries me. I feel so helpless.
He straightens his wonderful body again to fetch another trio of plates from the sink. A plate slips from his grasp and drops onto the floor.
It shatters upon impact. But not before he collapses – eyes rolling back into his skull.
“Don!” I shriek.
He strikes the floor at the same time as the plate, hitting his head on the floor with a hard thud. Blood trickles from his left nostril.
I fly towards him. His head is lolled backwards, and he seems to have lapsed into some sort of semi-conscious stupor. I cradle the back of his head in my hands. My stomach is clenched with fear.
“Don? Are you all right? Please . . . talk to me.” My voice comes out simultaneously tinny and squeaky. I debate on whether to call an ambulance.
His blue-green irises come back into focus. Dazedly, he looks up at me.
“Wh-what happened?”
“You fell.” I’m almost beside myself with relief. I’m a klutz when it comes to medical emergencies, being totally unable to perform CPR without spontaneously combusting myself into a hyper-emotional ball. Don sure picked the wrong Good Samaritan to go home with.
“I fell?”
“Yes.”
He touches the back of his head. I wince as I remember the sharp thud that accompanied it.
“I had a vision,” he says.
With my help, he props himself up on one elbow. He is still extremely shaky.
“A vision,” I repeat.
“Yes.” His hand is trembling slightly, and so I clasp it in mine. “In it, I saw something.”
I’m dying to know what that something is, of course, but my caring instincts scream at me to take care of him first. I lightly touch his upper lip where the blood from his left nostril has pooled.
“Don, I think we better get that seen to first. And I think we should get you to a hospital.”
My fingers come away with his blood. He blanches.
“Oh.”
“Yes. Let’s help you up. Let’s get you cleaned up first, and then I’ll get the car keys.”
“I don’t want to go to the hospital.”
“Why not? They owe you a brain scan.”
Don dabs at his nostril. “I’ve already outstayed my welcome here.”
“That’s stupid.”
“I mean it.”
“And I mean what I said. Look at me.” I cup his face in my palms. “You are not any trouble to me. Get that out of your head, OK?”
My heart is beating rapidly. Even in his dazed and bruised state, he’s alarmingly beautiful. Why have I never noticed those golden flecks in his blue-green eyes before?
“OK,” he acquiesces. “I’ll go in the morning. But I’ll pay you back for every cent I owe you.”
“For goodness sakes, Don . . . ”
“No ‘buts’ about it.”
“OK.’
Two can play at the ‘giving in’ game.
I help him to the bathroom. The blood has dripped onto his new white T-shirt. It wears two distinct splotches now, just above his left nipple, which protrudes suggestively out of the thin material.
God, I have it bad. I’m noticing such things even in a medical emergency.
“I think you better lie down,” I say.
I think I better lie down. Separately. In another room after I’ve taken a cold shower.
He strips off his T-shirt. The plan
es of his bare upper torso gleams oh-so-delectably in the soft bathroom light. I suppress a spasm of desire.
Get a hold of yourself, Jean. The poor guy may be terminally ill and you are having the hots for him.
Not fair.
Peering into the mirror, he dabs at his nose with a tissue I gave him. Bloody streaks come away. It pains me to see them.
“Are you OK now?” I ask in concern. “Feeling dizzy or anything?”
I touch the back of his head, feeling for a bump where he has fallen. There is thankfully none.
“I’m alright now,” he says, pressing the tissue onto his nose.
I’m still uneasy about the whole thing. There is something wrong with Don – this whole affair of his generalized amnesia, his incredibly enhanced speed – and I can’t piece together the jigsaw puzzle.
I shepherd him to the guest bedroom where I make him lie down on the bed’s coverlet. I take the pillow away from his head and put it under his knees, the way I’ve seen my mother do in the past for my Dad, who had emphysema fainting spells.
“Just breathe in and out deeply,” I tell Don. “It will make you feel better.”
His brilliant eyes regard mine.
“I saw something, Jean. I don’t know if it’s a memory or something else, but I saw a red plain. Parched. With a crimson sky above it. There’s a lake mirroring that sky which spans several miles across. I immediately knew where it was.”
My tongue goes dry. “Where?”
“Neverlake, Kansas.”
A parched red plain and a crimson sky? It sure doesn’t sound like Kansas. Don’s memories – if they are even memories – are suspect. I ponder what he said anyway.
He sits up urgently. “Jean, I know it’s real. That place must have meant something to me. This is the first lead I have.”
“I’ll Google it,” I say, pressing his chest down. His skin is warm and his flesh very firm. Just touching him sends a tinge of electricity through my fingers. “You just lie here and don’t move.”
“What’s Google?”
“Just lie there.”
I go to my bedroom to power up my laptop. I link to the Google Search engine and type in ‘Neverlake, Kansas’.
Out comes a map.
Excitedly, I go back to Don and fling myself onto the bed beside him.
The Gorgeous Naked Man in my Storm Shelter (Erotic Suspense) Page 3