by Sarah Jio
I close my eyes tightly. “Okay,” I say, pointing to my right shoulder. “Right here. Let’s do this.”
The pain is real, and when I feel the first prick of the needle, I flinch.
“Try to be as still as you can,” the tattoo artist says. His voice is deep and soothing, and I listen as he tells a story of a couple who’d been in earlier to tattoo wedding bands onto their ring fingers. I can’t help but think of Cade and my forever.
When my tattoo is complete, I have a look in the mirror, but my skin is swollen and puffy. It’s hard to get a complete sense of what it will look like. And to be honest, in this moment I really don’t care.
Cade pays the tattoo guy, then takes my hand. As we walk home to his apartment, my shoulder throbs, but I hardly notice. I feel connected to him in ways I’ve never been before. More than the tattoo, more than the words we’ve uttered to each other in moments of love, Cade and I are entwined. And I know we always will be.
NOVEMBER 24, 2008
“This is where I live,” I say to Cade as we walk in the door of the house I share with Ryan. It feels surreal to see him standing in the entryway. He stands by the door, paralyzed, as I take off my sweater and set my purse down.
“It’s okay,” I say softly, reaching for his duffel bag. He holds on to it tightly at first but then relents, and I set it by the door. “You can come in.”
Eddie runs past me and directly to Cade, who reaches out his hand to him. Does he remember?
He takes a step forward and silently surveys my living room. I flip on the lights and see that his wounds, though less swollen, look just as bad as they did in the hospital.
“You’re probably hungry,” I say nervously. I walk to the kitchen and peer into the refrigerator. For the first time in years, I have no idea what to cook. None at all. “What do you feel like?” I ask, not expecting a response. “I could make a burrito, maybe spinach quesadillas?” I nod, pulling out a bag of spinach, some cheese, and tortillas. “There,” I say, assembling the ingredients, then reaching for my trusty cast-iron skillet, which I’ve been cooking with since the days of living with Tracy in our little downtown studio. It was my grandma’s—she doesn’t do much cooking anymore. I like to think about all the meals it has provided over the years.
Cade watches as I make the quesadillas. When they’re ready, I cut them into triangles and put them on a plate for him.
“It’s not Wild Ginger,” I say, setting the plate on the table, “but plain ol’ quesadillas hit the spot sometimes.” I point to adjoining chairs at the table. “Please, sit. Make yourself comfortable.”
He slowly sinks into the chair beside me; Eddie plants himself on the rug at his feet.
“Here,” I say, pushing the plate toward him. He doesn’t reach for a quesadilla, so I lift one to his lips, just as I did in the hospital. It works, and he takes a cautious bite.
When his plate is clean, I clear the table and nervously try to make a plan for the evening. “You can stay in the upstairs guest bedroom,” I say. “You’ll probably want to have a bath. I’ll get you a towel and some fresh clothes.” He picks up the conch shell on the coffee table and turns it over and over, surveying every crevice. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll get you settled.”
As I climb the stairs, he follows, and I’m aware of every step I take, every breath that seeps from my lungs. I take a towel from the linen closet, then flip on the bathroom light. “I’ll get your bath started,” I say. “Soap is right there, and shampoo.”
He just stands and stares.
“Okay,” I say with a big exhale. “I’ll leave you now. Let me know if you need anything.”
I walk to my bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed, listening to the sound of the water running in the other room. Minutes pass, and I start to worry. Should I go check on him? I stand up, then sit down again. Then stand, slipping out of my clothes and into a tank top and leggings, my typical sleeping attire.
“Excuse me,” I say, peering into the bathroom through the barely cracked door. I push the door open wider to see Cade standing, fully clothed, in the same spot I left him ten minutes ago. “Everything okay?”
He doesn’t respond, so I slowly venture in and turn the faucet off. The tub is nearly overflowing.
“You need some help,” I say, nodding. “Let me help you.”
I take a deep breath, then step closer to him. My fingers unfasten the button on his coat and I let it fall to the ground. I remove the hospital gown next, revealing his thin bare chest and the familiar tattoo on his shoulder. I wonder if he notices mine now.
I swallow hard when I touch the button on his pants and tug it free. His chest rises and falls with every breath, accentuating the concave of his stomach. I feel a familiar flutter inside as I pull the zipper down. I look away as his pants fall to the ground, then slowly let my eyes drift back to the body I once knew so well. I had memorized every bit of his topography, like a well-studied map. Every freckle. Every inch of muscle and flesh.
I take his hand and lead him to the bath, testing it first with my free hand. “It’s just the right temperature,” I say. “Go ahead.”
He stares at the bathtub as if it’s Olympic-size and he’s just been asked to breaststroke across and back. “It’s okay,” I say, encouraging him to get in. “It’ll be relaxing.”
And then he steps in slowly, at first with trepidation. But once he lowers himself beneath the water, I can tell he finally feels at ease. I kneel beside him and use the spray attachment to soak his hair before I reach for the shampoo. I scrub and lather, then rinse his hair clean, offering him the bar of soap next. He doesn’t take it, so I rub it along his arms and chest. He watches me as I reach for a washcloth, then dip it into the water and onto his skin. The water is dark. While the hospital gave him a sponge bath, he has hardly been bathed properly, and when I help Cade up and wrap a towel around him, days, maybe even years, of grime from life on the streets washes down the drain.
I lead him to the bedroom and peer into the closet, where I select a pair of Ryan’s jeans and a blue college T-shirt, well worn at the edges. From the dresser, I grab a pair of white boxer briefs and add them to the stack. “Here,” I say. “You can wear this.”
I help him slip the T-shirt over his head, and his arms find their way through the sleeves. If he’s at all shy when the towel slips to the floor, he gives no indication. I carefully guide his legs through my fiancé’s boxer briefs, then help him into his jeans, buttoning them up the way I might for a small child.
“There,” I say when he’s dressed. He places his hands on the jeans, about two sizes too big, as if he’s never felt anything quite like the wonderful texture of freshly washed denim. Dressed and scrubbed, he looks more like the Cade I remember, aside from the long hair and beard. I look into his eyes, tilt my head to the right, and somehow expect him to snap out of it. To smile and say, “I’m back. And by the way, where can I get a haircut and shave?”
But that Cade is still locked away in the abyss, deep in the maze of his mind, perhaps where he keeps memories of me, of us. I sigh. “You must be exhausted, let me…”
As I speak, he sinks into my bed, laying his head on the pillow. I watch him shift uncomfortably to avoid putting pressure on his ribs. I hear Eddie’s footsteps on the stairs, barreling up and into my bedroom. He leaps onto the bed and nuzzles into the place between Cade’s stomach and right arm, tucking his chin over Cade’s left arm.
I smile to myself, then find my way to the guest bedroom. I glance at my phone; Ryan has sent me a few texts. Portland is beautiful. How am I? Instead of replying, I set my phone on the bedside table and lie awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling, thinking. When I finally close my eyes, I dream of Cade and the sea.
—
When I open my eyes, light streams through the bedroom window. Birds chirp in the tree outside, and I sit up and yawn, wondering if Cade has rested as well as I have. The old wood floors creak underneath my bare feet as I walk to my bedroom, wher
e the blanket and sheets are turned back, the bed empty. I look around the room, then walk to the bathroom, peering inside the open door. Also empty.
“Cade?” I say from the stairway. “Are you here?”
Eddie trots down the stairs behind me as I have a look around the first floor, quiet except for a slow drip from the kitchen faucet, which Ryan had scheduled a repairman to fix tomorrow. Did he leave? I feel panic rise in my chest, and I run to the back door to have a look at the empty yard behind the house. “Cade?” I call out again into the quiet house.
Then I notice a scant sliver of light coming through the front door. I open it, stepping out onto the front porch, which is where I find Cade, sitting on the steps, staring ahead.
“Oh,” I say, exhaling deeply. “There you are.”
I sit down beside him. For a moment I wonder what the neighbors might think of me, sitting on the front porch with a strange bearded man. But then Cade turns to me, smiles, and says two words that render any concerns meaningless. “Good morning.”
I squeeze his arm, beaming. “Good morning!” And the birds chirp. And the sun shines. And I am happy.
—
I pour coffee from the French press and watch him take the first sip from his mug, closing his eyes as he takes another, as if he’s trying to remember coffee, me, life.
“I thought I’d make us an omelet,” I say, opening the fridge. I pull out a carton of eggs, butter, some spinach, shredded cheese, and a few green onions that look as if they’ve seen better days.
I pour myself a second cup of coffee, then chop the spinach and trim off the wilted ends of the onions. Butter sizzles in the pan as I whisk the eggs together in a white ceramic bowl. Ryan loves my omelets, and I make them for him often. As I pour the eggs into the pan, watching the edges firm and the middle bubble slightly, I feel overcome with guilt. When Ryan comes home, Cade will hopefully soon be settled in the brain injury program at Harborview, and I’ll tell Ryan everything. He’ll understand, I reassure myself. Ryan always understands.
I divide the giant omelet into two, then dish up a serving for each of us. Cade’s hand shakes a little as he holds the fork, and a few bites fall to the plate before they reach his mouth, but he eats, and when he finishes his plate I offer him the rest of mine, which he happily takes.
I think of all the things I have to do: plan the wedding, get Cade set for the brain injury program, begin the monumental task of finding out what happened to him, including figuring out what James knows or doesn’t know. And write about it all. But I don’t want to do any of it. I just want to be right here, in this moment.
—
After breakfast, I quietly clean up the kitchen while Cade sits on the couch with Eddie. By eleven he’s dozed off, and I suspect that he’s years behind on his rest.
I slip out to the porch to call Tracy, letting him sleep as long as he needs to. “Hi,” I say quietly.
I hear the hospital in the background. “Why are you whispering?” she asks.
“Cade is here. He’s sleeping.”
“Cade’s at your house?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I brought him back here last night. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Is Ryan cool with this?”
“He’s not here,” I say. “He’s on a business trip to Portland this week.”
“Oh, Kailey,” Tracy says. “And so, what, he’s just sleeping in your guest bedroom?”
“Well now, yeah, but last night he actually slept in my bed. I mean, not with me. He just sort of fell asleep there.” I swallow hard. “I gave him a bath, got him cleaned up. He’s wearing Ryan’s clothes.”
“Wow,” Tracy says, taking it all in.
“I know,” I say nervously.
“He’s going to start that program at Harborview soon, right?”
“Yeah,” I say, pausing for a moment. “But I was thinking, maybe it would be better just to have him stay here. I’m the only one who really knows him. He could live here, in the guest bedroom, until he’s well enough to be on his own.”
“But, Kailey, you’re not a medical expert. Cade needs rigorous therapy and rehabilitation. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure you would take excellent care of him; it’s just that he needs more than that.” She’s quiet for a moment. “You and I both know that Ryan’s never going to be comfortable with the idea of you caring for Cade for an extended period of time.”
I shake my head. “Ryan would understand.”
“Really?” Tracy counters. “Here’s a man you once loved with all your heart, and he resurfaces, and you take it upon yourself to be his personal nurse and caregiver.”
“He’d do it for someone in his past, too,” I say.
“I’m not so sure he would, or that anyone would. I think that for you, this is different. I know you. You lost this man once and your heart can’t handle losing him again. I get that. But, Kailey, playing house with Cade isn’t going to save him. If you care about him, you’ll make sure he starts the program at Harborview. You’ll let him go so that he can get better.”
I sigh. “You’re right.”
“You know I am.” She’s interrupted by a work matter, then returns to the phone. “I’ve gotta go,” she continues. “But, Kailey, I think there is one huge way that you can help Cade.”
“What do you mean?”
“Find out what happened to him,” she says. “Ever since you told me about the John Doe report matching his description from 1998, I’ve just had the creepiest feeling.”
“Me too,” I say.
“Cade had a full life and a thriving business when he left, or when we thought he left,” she says. “I think someone may have wanted a cut of that, maybe someone who had something to do with his state today.”
I nod. “Yeah,” I say, lowering my voice again when I see Cade through the window stirring on the couch. “I think so, too. Something’s not right.”
“Help him make it right,” Tracy says before hanging up.
—
The rest of Tuesday passes, and by Wednesday morning, I’m struck with how time can barrel along when you’re not doing much of anything. In my case, sitting on the porch with Cade, sharing quiet meals at the table, telling him stories that I’m not sure he remembers or even understands. But for every split second he looks at me as if the light has blinked on, it warms me in a way I cannot describe. This happens mostly when I play him music, old records we used to love. In those moments, I see his spirit lift. I see the old spark in his eyes.
When Ryan calls that evening, I step onto the back porch to answer the phone.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I reply.
“I miss your voice. I miss you so much.”
“I miss you, too,” I say, tugging at a stray piece of yarn on the sleeve of my sweater.
“How’s your week been?”
“Ah, good,” I say.
“I tried calling you at the office, but you haven’t been answering.”
“Sorry,” I say. “It’s been nuts.”
“I know it has, honey,” he says. “Listen, can I just say…” He pauses, “You’ve just been so distant. I know you have something on your mind, something you’re not telling me or aren’t ready to tell me, but whatever it is, please, I hope it’s not going to come between us. Kailey, I can’t bear to lose you.”
My eyes well up with tears, for Ryan, for me, for my past and my future.
“You’re not losing me,” I promise him. Inside the house, I hear the sound of glass shattering. “But, Ryan, I’m sorry. I have to go. I’ll call you later, okay?”
Cade stands in the living room staring at his feet nervously. The Chihuly piece, a ridiculously expensive gnarled blend of multicolored blown glass that Ryan’s parents gave us for an engagement present, lies in pieces on the floor.
“It’s okay,” I say, rushing to his side.
He kneels and picks up a shard of glass and then another, pushing them together in an impossible attempt to fix it.
A moment later, I notice blood trickling down his hand and I gasp.
“You’re hurt,” I say. “Just leave it. I’ll clean it up later.”
I jump to my feet and return with a damp cloth and a bandage. “Here,” I say, taking his hand in mine to tend to his wound. He doesn’t let go when I’m finished. Instead he squeezes my hand in his.
“Thank you,” he says in the voice I knew so well. A voice that made me laugh and cry. A voice that told a thousand stories and uttered even more “I love you”s.
OCTOBER 17, 1997
I glance at the clock on the wall in my apartment: six thirty-five. Cade’s an hour late.
“You look agitated,” Tracy says, looking up from the couch, where she’s watching a rerun of Friends.
I open my mouth to speak, but Tracy continues. “Did you read your horoscope today?”
I shake my head.
She nods. “Mercury’s in retrograde. It’s throwing everything off, but particularly for Aquariuses.” She frowns. “I hate to say this, and I know how much you and Cade love each other, but things are looking a little rocky in the relationship department.”
“Well,” I say with a sigh, “you know I normally don’t buy that stuff, but”—I glance at the clock again—“I have to be honest: I’m starting to.”
“What’s going on?” she asks.
“Cade’s late again,” I say. “He was supposed to be here at five-thirty.” I stare at the dinner I’ve made—sea bass and steamed asparagus, which is now cold—and sigh.
“Did he call?”
“No,” I say, slumping on the couch beside her. Jennifer Aniston’s hair looks perfect on the screen as she sips coffee from an oversize mug. I run my hands through my hair and consider a new haircut, maybe changing the color. Maybe changing everything.
Tracy nods knowingly.
“Something’s wrong,” I say.
“How so?”
I shake my head. “It’s Cade. He’s…changed.”
“Changed?”
I sigh. “Cade is the most brilliant person in any room, the funniest, the most engaging. I knew it when I met him, and ever since that day I’ve been swept up in his whole being. When his sun shines on you, you just…feel it. But when it shines elsewhere, it’s cold.”