She’d taken the stand, unhappily. When I’d returned to California, I asked her about the shot I’d heard in my flashback.
She’d looked at me with impatience, but also with resignation. “Yeah, I shot at him,” she’d answered, pursing her lips. “He’d have died if he hadn’t gone to the ER. So he fucked himself with that.”
Mira had testified and her gun was used as evidence, confirming that the bullet found in Morris Jensen’s abdomen belonged to Mira’s gun. Mira wasn’t charged with a crime, but she’d received a bit of heat for not coming clean sooner. I felt bad about that, but Mira shrugged it off.
“I’m moving anyway,” she said as we left the courtroom.
“With Six?”
She looked at me like she was annoyed for me asking. But she was coming to see that I’d changed. I’d hardened a little. She teasingly called me a rat, saying it was more appropriate than mouse. And then she’d sighed. “Six has a lot going on right now. I’m not sure that I should hang around him.” I didn’t push her for more information, because that was practically a heartfelt confession from her in and of itself.
When I came home from the trial, I stared at that box in the corner of my room with contempt. And then my phone rang.
I didn’t recognize the number, but the caller ID said it was Texas. My heart roared in my chest and my finger shook over the Answer button.
“Hello?”
“Parker.” A woman’s voice. I sat on the bed, overcome with emotion. I’d wanted to hear his voice. But this was likely the reason I couldn’t.
“This is she.”
“It’s Bridget.”
The breath left my mouth. “Bridget.” I said her name with equal dread and hope.
“Can you come to Texas?”
My heart burned. “When?”
“Right now. I’ll buy your ticket if you need me to-”
“No, I’m already coming,” I said, not bothering to change my clothes. I rushed out the door with my purse in one hand and my phone to my ear. “Should I call this number when I land?”
There was a rush of relief in her voice. “Yes. Yes. Text me your flight details when you get to the airport.”
I didn’t ask for any other information. I didn’t want to cry on the flight. I didn’t want to be the object of anyone’s interest. I only wanted to get to Texas as soon as possible. I could cry then, with confirmation from Bridget.
By the time Bridget met me in front of Arrivals at the airport, I was a wreck. She climbed out of the car and threw her arms around me. She was shaking and crying in my arms, so I started crying and shaking too. By the time she pulled away, my entire face was covered in tears. I was wiping them away with the back of my hand when I saw her face.
Or more specifically, the smile on her face. “Thank you,” she said, her eyes brighter from the tears, the smile wider than I had ever seen.
“What did I do?” I asked warily.
“Everett had the surgery.”
I felt my knees grow weak and I grabbed a hold of her, desperate to stay standing. “Are you kidding?”
“No!” she exclaimed. “He had the surgery three days ago. His MRI scans look amazing. He’s awake. He starts chemo to kill the cancer cells soon, but we wanted you to come. To see him.”
My heart was aching. But it was the good kind of hurt. “How is he?”
Bridget knew what I was asking. And that’s when I saw her smile slip. “He did suffer some memory loss. But it seems like it’s just pockets right now. Not a specific duration.”
I told myself that if he lost his memory, it’d be okay. I’d have it for the both of us. But if he was someone else, if this Everett wasn’t my Everett, it would tear me apart.
Bridget broke a few traffic laws on the way to hospital, but I was thankful. I was desperate to see him. I didn’t have a photo of Everett, so my dreams had been my refuge, my way to see him again.
When I arrived to the hospital, I followed Bridget down the corridor with shaky legs, pressing my hand against the wall for support. I saw Patricia, Everett’s mother standing next to a man in a white coat outside of a closed door. Bridget stopped and introduced me to Everett’s doctor. But my hands were itching to open the door, to see him.
The doctor turned to me, with compassion in his eyes. “Parker. I want you to be prepared for what is about to happen. We don’t know if this is short term or long term memory loss. We don’t know how much he actually does remember. Memory loss is a tricky thing. He could regain his memories, but it might not be for some time. Or he might never remember.”
“Parker,” Patricia interrupted. “Everett doesn’t know you’re here. He doesn’t remember you,” her voice wavered. “You can walk away, right now. If his memory is completely gone, it will be like you were never here.” Tears pooled in her eyes and she lifted a shaky hand to grasp mine. “No one would judge you.”
I stared into her eyes, frosty blue like those of her son, who was lying on the other side of this door. I swallowed and then squeezed her hand. “I would. I would judge myself, for walking away from him. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. I love him. I’m here, I’m alive because of him.”
She smiled, her lips trembling as the first tear spilled down her cheek. “And he’s here because of you. Thank you, thank you for saving him.”
I pulled her in for a hug and swallowed the lump that had settled in my throat. “He saved me first.”
And then my hand was on the door knob, turning and pushing it opened. The door opened with only a quiet whoosh. My eyes instantly found him, asleep on the hospital bed. His head was wrapped with thick white bandages and his left arm was resting across his abdomen, the wires coming from his veins resting peacefully against his hospital gown. One foot was sticking out of the blankets and my hands itched to cover it.
Instead, I walked towards the large window. The light flooded the room, making everything appear more alive. I looked back at the bed, took in Everett’s warm complexion. He looked the opposite of how I thought he would. He looked peaceful, healthy. I knew, from what Bridget had explained on the ride over, that the doctors felt confident that they’d removed the entire tumor. I felt relief then. It poured into my veins and into my bones, and I was nearly brought to my knees with it. I turned to the window, tears pooling in my eyes. I bit my lip to stop its trembling.
“Are you a nurse?” His voice was groggy, as if he was learning to use it for the first time. And the words themselves pierced a small piece of my heart. But it was his voice. It was Everett. I held on to that knowledge before I wiped the tears from my eyes and turned to face him, the window at my back.
He was squinting at me. I moved one step closer to his bed, but kept my hands clasped in front of me. “No,” I said, slowly shaking my head. I took another step closer.
“Are you a doctor?” he asked, confusion on his face.
I shook my head and moved one tentative step closer.
“Are you going to a funeral then?” It was said with mild disdain. I let out a breath of relief. It really was him.
“No, I’m not going to a funeral.”
He gestured to my clothing with his hand, the hand that wasn’t poked with needles. “What’s with the fancy clothing then?”
I was close enough to sit in one of the bedside chairs, so I slowly lowered myself into one of them. I didn’t let my eyes meet his. Instead, I just glanced around him. I knew if I stared into his eyes, I would fall apart.
“I just came from a trial.” I brushed my hands down the black slacks, wiping away the sweat that had gathered on my palms. “I helped put someone, a bad someone, away for a long time.”
“Good for you,” he said. It sounded earnest. And it stabbed my heart again. I wanted to tell him all about it, to thank him for pushing me. For breaking the ice that I let form around me. For helping me remember. But I stayed silent and nodded, swallowing another lump.
“So…” he started, dragging the word out. “I’m guessing we know one another?”
My heart stumbled in my chest. This was harder than I’d expected. I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“Sorry. I am a bit forgetful these days.” It was said with a laugh from him, and a wince from me. I looked down at the tiled floor and tried to think of what to say. “But there’s good news,” he said, his voice sounding hopeful. I lifted my head and finally soaked up some bravery and looked into his eyes. His eyes shined back at me.
“Your brain tumor is gone,” I said, feeling happiness at that truth. “You’ll start chemo soon, but you seem to be bouncing back better than expected-”
“I already know all of this,” he interrupted. His bluntness hadn’t changed. “I am more interested in what I don’t know. Or, rather, what I don’t remember.”
I nodded. It would be a long road with him, especially if his memory never returned. We’d have to start from scratch. If his memory was permanently gone, he’d never remember how much he changed me, how far we’d come. I wouldn’t let myself mourn for that just yet. I’d let it be enough that I knew, that I remembered. I would not fall apart in front of him.
“I’m told I brought this with me to the hospital,” he said, reaching his IV-free hand under the sheets and pulling out a small book. His journal. I sucked in a breath. It was gray, the color worn and the material tattered, but I could see as he opened it and flipped through the pages, it was covered in writing. In drawings. My heart beat sped up as he turned the pages. He closed it and picked it up, tossing it to me.
I caught it clumsily, nearly dropping it. I heard him laugh from the bed and looked at him with a sharp look before remembering where I was, where we were. “Sorry,” I said, pushing out a breath.
“Don’t be.”
I turned the journal over in my hands. ‘PARKER’ it said, in bold letters on the cover. My hand moved to trace the letters, and my eyes closed as I imagined him writing each letter. The way his wrist moved with each stroke. Knowing that I was the only thing on his mind in that moment. It was a profound moment for me. The knowing. I was touching a piece of the Everett that remembered me.
“You must be Parker.” His words were like a power-packed punch to the heart. “Your name is written on my notebook.” My eyes opened, not without difficulty, and I finally met his eyes. The ice blue irises shined back at me. Eyes that belonged to another person, maybe even another soul. I looked down at the journal in my hands and kept running my fingers over my name. Maybe he had leaked a bit of his soul into these pages. “It’s also written on my chest.”
I nodded.
“They say that’s bad luck,” he continued.
I shrugged. “I had a part of you tattooed on me too.” His eyes lit up with that.
I suddenly doubted myself. Could I do this? Could I start anew with this Everett? There was such calm between us at this moment, a calm that had never been present in our interactions before. I’d always been a ball of coiled fear, ready to run at a moment’s notice. Should I run now?
“Don’t.” His voice was soft, but his words were firm.
I let out a heavy breath, releasing some of pressure on my heart. I looked into his eyes again. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t run.” He narrowed his eyes, as if trying to compel me to stay with the force of his gaze.
I choked back a sob. He’d said those words to me so many times. Before I could say anything, he spoke again.
“You’re not wearing the right shoes anyway.”
The sound that came from my mouth was half sob, half laugh. My heart simultaneously ached and swelled. Could my Everett, my dark, funny, intense Everett, still exist without the memory of when we met? I had one true test. I lifted my eyes to his again. He was staring at me, but I didn’t itch under his gaze this time. I ached for it, I relished it.
I leaned forward. “It’s rude to stare.”
One side of his lips lifted up in a smile. I sent up silent prayer to hear the words I hoped to hear.
God listened. Everett was still my Everett.
“I never claimed to be anything else.”
Ten Months Later
It was probably a dumb idea. I knew that. But it was worth trying. Or, that’s what I told myself when I landed in Denver and waited in baggage claim for him after a red eye flight from California.
I looked around, looked at the people mulling around, waiting for baggage and hugging their loved ones. I ached a little bit. I ached all the time. I missed the Everett that lived in my memories. The Everett that lived now was in so many ways the same Everett. He still said rude things just to make me laugh. But he was confused a lot. I tried not to push him. I stuck around through his first round of chemo before heading home to California. Everett stayed in Texas, with his sister. She took him to his chemo appointments and to the gym as often as possible. The surgery had weakened him, but he was practically back to normal. His memory of me was still absent, and that stung a little bit. Especially when he remembered his life before me.
He’d called me from Texas a few weeks after the surgery and asked me if I knew Charlotte. His memory had left off being with her. I tried not to make gagging sounds in the phone, so all I said was, “Trust me, you don’t like Charlotte.”
Everett, to his benefit, was committed to me. In the only way he really could be. He called or texted me daily. He asked me questions and I did my best to answer him. He read the notebook where he’d written things done, so he knew a lot of things about me that the Everett pre-surgery had known. He’d made comments on the picture he drew of me on the first page, the one of my profile, my head back, my lips slightly open. I’d laughed when he made the comments, saying how ‘hot’ it was. Once in a while, I flew out to Texas to visit him, but there was still emotional distance between us.
To be clear: we hadn’t kissed. I knew Everett wanted to. But he seemed to respecting whatever it was that was holding me back. And the only thing holding me back was his memory. I was desperate for him to remember. I wanted that look he’d given me, the look with feeling. I wanted it more than anything. And I was still holding onto a shred of hope that he’d remember someday.
And that’s why I was sitting in baggage claim after claiming my keys from the rental car company. My eyes searched the crowd for him. His hair had grown out again, though he kept it shorter than it’d been when we first met.
I missed the long hair. I missed a lot of things. And I tried my damnedest to push it from my head, to focus on what was important. Everett was alive. And he was strong. And he’d listened to me, when I’d made my emotional plea before leaving him in New Orleans.
So when I saw him emerge through the doors into baggage claim, my heart skipped a beat. And I walked towards him, my heart in my throat and my eyes shining.
“Parker,” he said, holding his arms out. I went into his arms. This was my favorite place. He still felt the same to me, even if he didn’t feel the same for me. “You haven’t been hugged enough.” It was something he’d read in the journal, but each time he said it, a fresh wave of tears started.
I pulled away first. “I have the keys to our Jeep. You ready?”
He angled his head towards the baggage carousel. “I just need to grab one bag.”
“Oh, of course,” I said, motioning him along. When he walked away, I missed Everett the asshole.
Everett had written a lot about me in the journal. But he didn’t write about Picketwire Canyon or our tattoos. I wasn’t sure why. He’d written about the Four Corners, about meeting Mira in Colorado, about how I’d kissed him with feeling in Texas. But it was as if an entire chunk of the journal was missing. He’d left his descriptions of each time we’d had sex, which was embarrassing for Everett to tell me about. It felt like a stranger was reading about our more intimate scenes. But I tried hard. I tried to accept Everett now. I tried not to mourn the Everett who remembered me. But it hurt.
Everett and I met up with the caravan for our trip through the canyon. We stopped at the petroglyphs first. I watched Everett look at them,
waiting to see if he made the same comments the first time. He didn’t. He just nodded and we returned to the vehicle.
When we stopped for the arch, my heart started thundering. I grabbed my camera and walked around the car to Everett. “Let’s go,” I said impatiently. I reached for his hand instinctually and he clasped it. We looked at each other and our hands for a second. Everett scrunched his brow. It was the first time we’d held hands since I’d left him in New Orleans. But it felt right, right with the moment. So I tugged him, pulled him along with me.
As expected, everyone clambered up to the arch but I pulled Everett to the view that meant so much to me. “Don’t look at the arch,” I said.
“You’re so bossy sometimes,” he muttered.
“Get over it,” I muttered back. “See this?” I said, gesturing towards the valley in the canyon, the river that cut through it. “This is the Purgatoire River.”
“Purgatoire.” Everett tasted the word and looked at me with confusion. “Like purgatory?”
He was screwing up my speech. It was very Everett of him. “Yes. The Spanish explorers came through here first and their men had a rough time, so they called it a version of ‘The River of Lost Souls in Purgatory’. And French explorers came through and renamed it the Purgatoire River, their name for purgatory. And then American’s butchered the pronunciation so they call this the Picketwire Canyonlands.”
“Slow down, Parker,” Everett said looking at me like I’d grown three heads. “I didn’t know I’d be getting a history lesson.”
I gritted my teeth. I wanted to yell, “You imparted all that knowledge on me, asshole!” but I kept my mouth shut and breathed in through my nose. “Everyone comes here to look at the arch,” I continued, using my thumb to gesture behind us. “But I like this view myself.”
Everett looked back at the arch and then at the view in front of us. “I agree. I’d rather look at this than the arch.” I wasn’t getting what I wanted from him. I grabbed his hand again. He looked down at our clasped hands and up at me again.
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