Remember Me

by L'Amour, Nelle

  Not a finger. Or a toe.

  My legs are paralyzed.

  I try, but can’t pry my eyes open.

  I’m living in darkness.

  Every breath hurts.

  I can’t move my mouth.

  My throat is as dry as a desert and so unbearably sore.

  Like I’ve swallowed shards of glass.

  Sometimes, I can’t feel a thing.

  That only lasts for a short while.

  Until screaming pain seeps back into my bones.

  I can only hear.

  Fear fills me.

  Rhythmic beeping sounds ring in my ears. Beep, beep, beep.

  Around me, muffled voices. Male and female.

  “How is she doing?”

  “No improvement.”

  “She’s still in a coma.”

  “It’s been more than a week.

  “What are her chances?”

  Silence.

  Please talk to me. Someone!

  I don’t know if I’m dead or alive. Or why I’m here.

  I belong with my husband.

  Finn. Beautiful Finn.

  And my baby. My precious Maddie.

  I love them with my heart and soul. With all I still have.

  A glimmer of hope.

  Maybe I’m alive. I can think with my mind. Feel with my heart.

  Visions of our life together dance in my head.

  Or perhaps it’s all an illusion.

  I drift off into a neverland, not sure if it’s heaven or hell.

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

  The voices: “She’s flatlining!”

  “She’s going into cardiac arrest!”

  “We’re losing her!”

  “Code blue emergency!”

  Then, a white light.

  CHAPTER 11

  Seven a.m. I’m in the kitchen, making coffee. Hoping the caffeine will pour some life into me. Another sleepless night in my empty bed, I feel like a zombie. Only my heartbeat lets me know I’m alive. The timer dings, and almost simultaneously, the doorbell rings.

  I hate the doorbell. All week along it’s been constantly ringing, neighbors bringing over food and flowers. The bell rings again. It must be yet another neighbor, checking in on me or bringing me a frickin’ fruitcake or some other do-gooder crap to cheer me up. Don’t these people know that I just want to be left alone, mourn the loss of my wife, and take care of my child? Sweets can’t sugarcoat my aching soul. Or bring back my Skye.

  Maddie’s still in her crib, sound asleep. I hope the doorbell doesn’t wake her. She used to wake up with a gleeful coo. Now, she wakes up crying. She misses her mother. I know it. I do too.

  The bell rings again and this time it’s followed by a rap, rap, rap, rap. Dressed in sweats and a ratty old T-shirt, I take a quick sip of my coffee and hurry to the front door, hoping to get to it before the fracas gets to be too much. I unlock the deadbolt, expecting to see another neighborhood matron with cheap store-bought flowers or a Saran-wrapped platter of home-baked cookies. Wanting to come in to offer their condolences and make small talk about my wife when I know they’re here to ogle me.

  Grief is still burning in my chest like a bonfire. I’m in no mood for people. No mood for conversation. Ready with my brief gratitude speech filled with trite platitudes, I swing the front door open and am caught off guard by my visitors. The muscles in my forehead lift as I take them in. One is a medium–height stocky man with a thick head of jet black hair that defies his fifty or so years and clad in a shabby trench coat; the other a taller, younger, crew-cut male wearing an ill-fitting blue suit that hangs on his lanky physique, chewing a wad of gum. Before I can say a word, the older, heavier one reaches into the pocket of his rumpled coat.

  “Detective Pete Billings from the Los Angeles Police Department.” His voice laced with an unmistakable Jersey accent, he shows me his shiny badge and introduces his companion. “And my partner, Lieutenant Mancuso.” The scrawny officer likewise shows me his badge.

  “Can we come in?” asks the detective.

  Puzzled, I agree to let the two cops in and lead them to the living room. Billings settles into an armchair, making himself at home, while his partner heads to the chair next to him. I take a seat on the couch facing them.

  The detective’s dark eagle-sharp eyes survey the room, stopping on my abstract paintings scattered on the walls. “Nice place you have here.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter, wondering what the point of their visit is.

  “Mind if I have a piece of this?” he asks, already helping himself to a slice of the fruitcake that’s on the coffee table.

  “Sure, go ahead,” I say as he stuffs his mouth, crumbs falling onto his lapels.

  “Thanks,” he mumbles, his mouth full of the candied cake.

  “What can I do for you?” I ask as his partner withdraws a small yellow-lined pad from his breast pocket along with a pen.

  “We have a couple of questions to ask you.”

  “Okay.” My voice is tenuous.

  “What kind of marriage did you and your wife have?”

  I’m somewhat taken aback, but I answer. “We had a good one. We loved each other very much.”

  The detective nods. “I see. But after seven years together, you must have had some little problems. Me and the missus always get into squabbles.”

  I twist my wedding band. I haven’t been able to bring myself to take it off.

  “We had a hard time conceiving a baby. We went through years of fertility treatments.”

  “They’re very expensive, aren’t they?”

  “Skye had health insurance that paid for most of them. It was more the emotional toll they took on us. A lot of years of trying with no results.”

  “But you have a kid.”

  “We got lucky one night.”

  “Good for you. There’s nothing like getting your woman knocked up.”

  I’m put off by his words but choose to say nothing.

  “Was Skye a good mother?”

  “Yes, but she spent too much time working. She didn’t even take a maternity leave.”

  “Oh, by the way, my wife was a big fan of her news segments. Sorry about your loss.”

  “Thanks,” I say humbly, noticing the simple gold band on his ring finger that resembles mine. A pang of envy shoots through me. Lucky bastard has a wife.

  “Did it bother you that she was making a mid six-figure income while you were a struggling artist?”

  As the detective’s eyes again dart to a painting, I ponder his question. Yeah, sure it bothered me. Not because I was jealous, but because it made me feel inadequate at times. I didn’t like her being the principal breadwinner all these years, springing for all the luxuries we had in our life, but it never seemed to bother her. Holding back my thoughts, I simply answer no.

  His eyes stayed fixed on the painting. One of the few figurative ones.

  “Say, is that a portrait of your wife?”

  “Yeah.” My wedding present to her. It pains me to look at it. I’ve considered taking it down.

  “I don’t know much about art, but you seem rather talented to me.” He turns to his partner. “What d’ya think, Mancuso?”

  His partner shrugs. He chews his gum as Billings continues.

  “Are you aware your wife had a five million dollar life insurance policy?”

  I flinch, unable to contain my surprise or the shock in my voice. “No. She never mentioned that to me.”

  The grating detective stuffs his face with more of the cake, then gulps it down. “You know a lot of people would kill to get their hands on a boatload of money like that.”

  His words rattle me. Rage rises in my chest. “What are you saying?”

  “We have reason to believe your wife was murdered.”

  At his unexpected words, my heart drops to my stomach. My mouth goes dry as I process them. It takes me several moments to have the wherewithal to respond. Just one word pours o
ut.

  “What?!” My mouth stays open, my jaw hangs low.

  “Several witnesses saw your wife speeding down Mulholland, being chased by an SUV. A couple of teenagers, who were hanging out on one of the outlooks, thought they heard gunshots.”

  I’m stunned into silence as he continues, his partner quietly taking notes.

  “In our investigation, we found some bullet shells along Mulholland.”

  “Jesus,” I mutter.

  “You know, with that hefty life insurance policy—”

  With anger in my voice, loud enough to wake Maddie, I cut him off. “You fucking think I killed my wife?”

  “Where were you that night?”

  “Goddammit. I was here. Watching the baby.”

  “Do you have anyone who can prove that?”

  “Yeah, my wife. But that’s not going to help, is it?”

  “Why did your wife go out that night?”

  “She told me it was for work. She was working on a big story.”

  “Did she tell you anything about it?”

  “She was very secretive about it. She often was when it came to her stories.”

  “I see. Was there anything unusual about your wife’s behavior that night?”

  “She seemed a little on edge.”

  “Was she wearing her work clothes?”

  “She was a little dressed up.”

  “Like how dressed up?”

  “A mini dress and high heels.” I don’t tell them she looked hot as hell.

  “Like a hooker? No pun intended.”

  His words affront me. “No, my wife could never look like a . . . prostitute.”

  “Like she was going on a hot date?”

  I swallow my anger and emphatically tell them again that she was working on a story.

  “Did you believe her?”

  I hesitate. Do I tell him that I had my doubts? That it was the third time that week that she got all dolled up in a seductive black dress and fuck me shoes. That in the back of my mind, I thought she might be having an affair.

  The detective reads my mind. “You’ve heard of the seven year itch. Do you think your wife was having an affair?”

  A bitter mix of anger and doubt courses through me. “I don’t know. I mean NO.”

  “Is there anyone who would want to harm her?”

  “She was an investigative reporter. She made a lot of enemies. But I don’t think she ever had a death threat.”

  “We found a pepper spray dispenser near the wreck.”

  “Skye always carried pepper spray or mace. It was part of the job. It made her feel safer.”

  My eyes stay fixed on the detective as he retrieves something from his coat pocket. A dented gold tube of lipstick. I don’t recognize it. Skye always wore lip-gloss that she brushed on with a wand.

  “We also found this at the site of the crash. It was one of the few other things that survived it. Well, more or less.” I watch as he clicks the base.

  An angry, gruff voice: “Kill the bitch!”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Do you recognize it?”

  I shake my head though the voice sounds vaguely familiar. At least it’s not mine.

  “Can you identify the voice?” I ask anxiously.

  “Unfortunately, it’s distorted. And not enough to run through our voice tracking software.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Mr. Hooker, we have reason to believe that your wife’s life was in danger. That whoever she was investigating or seeing intended to harm her.”

  I process his words. He’s implying that it’s still possible that she was having an affair.

  “And we have reason to believe that as long as this potential killer is out there, your life and that of your child’s may be in danger.”

  Silently, nervously, I rake my hand through my hair, my chest so tight I can barely breathe.

  “Am I still a suspect?”

  “Until your wife’s assailant is found, we can’t rule out anyone.”

  “Have you talked to her boss at Conquest? Jim Hartley. Maybe he knows something.”

  “We talked to him earlier. He didn’t tell us much. Except that your wife seemed a little anxious recently. He attributed it to her concern about getting a promotion.”

  “What about her desk? Or her computer?”

  “Her desk was cleaned out. And both her laptop and cell phone were demolished in the accident.” The detective stuffs one more slice of the fruitcake into his mouth. “Do you mind if we take a look around?”

  “Sure. Be my guest. But please keep it down because our baby’s asleep.” I can’t help saying “our.”

  A few minutes later, the twosome returns.

  “Well, we won’t take up anymore of your time.” Then, he spots my guitar perched in the corner. And the poster above it of my idol—The Boss.

  “You play guitar?” he asks.

  “Yeah.” Though I haven’t gone near the acoustic instrument Skye gave me as a wedding present since she passed.

  “Hey, I’m from Hoboken. Me and the missus are big Springsteen fans.”

  So we have something in common. I think about giving him the concert tickets we have—I mean, I had—to a Boss concert at The Greek, but just let it go, not wanting to make more conversation. Or spend more time with him. My eyes stay on the detective as he reaches into the breast pocket of his coat and slips out a card. He hands it to me. “Call me if you think of anything.”

  As he and his partner head out, I stare down at the card.

  Detective Pete Billings

  Los Angeles Police Department

  Homicide Division

  Cell phone: 213-555-6161

  A wail sounds from the nursery.

  And at that moment, I know our lives are changed forever.

  If someone could kill my Skye, someone can kill us.

  CHAPTER 12

  Four Years Later

  I squirm. The sharp snip of scissors sends a chill down my spine. Goosebumps erupt along my arms.

  “Stay still.” The gentle voice of my plastic surgeon, one of the many wonderful doctors who have attended to me since my near fatal accident. After years of rehabilitation, most of which have been spent at a nun-run facility, the new me is about to make her debut. Sister Marie, the big-hearted nun, who took me under her wing and lovingly nursed me back to health, both physically and emotionally, holds my hand.

  “Doctor, be careful of my necklace,” I stammer, moving my other hand to the dangling gold locket. The one single thing that’s gotten me through my darkest moments. Those many times I wanted to give up. Having the photo of my family—my husband, baby daughter, and me inside it close to my heart—gave me the will to persevere. And gave me hope.

  “Honey, it’s going to be all right,” says Sister Marie, her voice as soothing as a balm. How many times she’s said that to me, getting me over humps of severe depression and despair. Thinking that I’d never walk or talk again and most of all never see my family. My beloved Finn and our precious Maddie. Gripping the large cross that hangs on her buxom chest, she says a soft prayer as my surgeon continues to work on me.

  Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip.

  Sitting upright on an examining table, I keep my unblinking eyes on my doctor as he cuts through the layers of bandages that swath my face. My heart beats overtime. I suck in a deep breath. This will be the first time I see my new self. My face, mutilated in the accident I can’t remember, has required years of plastic surgery along with countless other operations to repair the rest of my battered body. Years of painful, painstaking surgeries, months confined to a hospital bed hooked up to all kinds of IVs and fed intravenously, weeks on end using a wheelchair, walker, or crutches, hours and hours of grueling physical, occupational, cognitive, and speech therapy. I’ve been told my car went over Mulholland Drive. A horrific car crash. If a Hollywood tour guide hadn’t seen it burst into flames, I would have been left to die. It’s a miracle I survived, says Sister Marie. A double miracle
. Resuscitated by the medics and then I almost didn’t make it in the hospital. Touch and go in a coma for three months, followed by a year in critical care in a full body cast.

  In rehab, I learned to walk and talk again. But because of the extensive, disfiguring damage, my face has remained hidden to me. For the last few years, I’ve looked much like the Invisible Man or should I say Woman, my head wrapped like a mummy’s in bandages with apertures for my eyes, nose, and mouth. One reconstructive facial surgery after another. After each, my doctor telling me, “We’re getting there.”

  I never was what one would consider beautiful though Finn always told me I was. At best cute with my dimpled chin, puppy-brown eyes, and puggish nose. Somehow, the network makeup people camouflaged my imperfections and made me glow on the air. My dynamic personality and intelligence also helped me shine.

  “Are you okay?” asks Dr. Sanders as he unravels the bandages.

  I nod. Inside my chest, my heart is hammering. Every nerve is buzzing. A dizzying mixture of anticipation and dread spools through me. In addition to sustaining major lacerations, almost every bone in my face was shattered in the accident. My jaw, my cheekbones, even my teeth. I also sustained a serious brain injury—blunt force trauma—that resulted in retrograde amnesia. I’m unable to recall the traumatic events of the night that almost cost me my life. Not one. Nor the days leading up to it. I’ve totally blocked them out. And despite extensive psychotherapy, there’s a good possibility I may never remember what happened. All I know from a Detective Billings is someone tried to kill me.

  “How’s it going, doc?” I ask hesitantly. My throaty voice after all these years still sounds alien to me. My windpipe, I was told, was crushed in the accident. I’m lucky I can talk says my speech pathologist. Another miracle.

  “So far, so good,” replies my plastic surgeon as layers of gauze peel off. I can hear a smile in his voice. He’s working from the base of my neck up.

  Suddenly, a cold draft hits the exposed flesh of my face. The air conditioning. Another shiver runs through me. Not because I’m cold, but because I’m apprehensive. Butterflies flit in my stomach as my heart constricts in my throat.

  Chewing my lips, I fight the urge to touch my face. I slide the hand Sister Marie isn’t holding under my butt to keep it at bay. Temptation taunts me.