Page 18 of Love What's Left
“I—” I force myself not to say the words. He knows I’m sorry. Before he blocked my number, he wrote me back:Stop apologizing and be a better man.
“You don’t know where this is going with Sydney. It’s early. Whatever happens, you adjust. Don’t look for a way to rewind the clock,” he says. “Look for a path forward.”
8
Sydney
One Week Later
Fingers press on my pulse, then a cool hand rests on the back of mine. “Good morning, Mrs. McRae. It’s Tuesday, May 8th. Blue skies and sunshine on the big island of Hawai’i today,” the nurse says.
“I’m notMrs.,” I whisper without opening my eyes.
“You could do worse things than wake up married to Gabriel McRae,” the woman says cheerfully.
A pang pierces my chest and throat.
“Try to stay calm. Dr. Granthy says when you feel safe again, it could come back.”
I’ll never feel safe again.
My last clear memories before this place are of high school in a small town. Living in a group home because I’d been in foster care too long. Playing soccer, determined to get a college scholarship.
I don’t know Dr. Granthy. Don’t remember anything the doctor said to me. Most of it has passed into the same void as everything before it. I can’t hold on to those new memories any more than I can keep a grip on my so-called husband’s name.
“You were rescued twenty-four days ago. No one will hurt you here. Can you open your eyes for me?”
I crack crusty eyelids.
The nurse indicates a silver-framed photograph from a bedside table. “Your husband put this close by so you can look at it anytime you need to. Do you remember seeing it yesterday?”
“Yes.” The man in the photo is almost too beautiful to be real. The sight of his smile makes my throat burn. The bride looks like she could be me. She has the same olive complexion and brown eyes inherited from my Sicilian-American mother. We share the same dark hair, high cheekbones, and full mouth. The man in the picture holds her in his arms while she laughs like he whispered something funny in her ear. I want to smash the glass and tear the photo to shreds. The picture is a lie. I know it down to my bones. Photoshop or something.
The gaslighting is next-level. If I managed to escape, not only does he have the financial resources to track me, he’s convinced the whole world I’m his wife. Even the police would return me to him if they didn’t put me in a psych ward.
I turn my head to observe the man where he stands near the window. He must be somewhere in his early thirties, with hair the color of dark toffee. If I touched it, it would run through my fingers like cool silk. Dark scruff covers his jaw, and his bare feet sink into the plush navy and yellow area rug beneath him.
Wearing a rumpled black button-down and old jeans, he nurses a cup of coffee and observes me over the rim, giving me what I assume is meant to be an encouraging smile.
It’s fake, fake, fake. A smile is more than arranging lips to turn upward. He’s as beautiful as some statue carved in marble, but he looks like my dad always did after binge drinking: bleary and unshaven with eyes rimmed in red.
I frown and turn away. This bedroom is over-the-top fancy. Rich. High ceilings. Pale blue and ivory wallpaper. An entire wall of glass with blackout curtains they pull closed at night and slide open during the day. A crystal vase full of daisies. The cheerful yellow centers and soft white petals are too humble for a place like this.
White slip-covered armchairs sit next to a round table angled near the sliding glass doors that lead out to a patio. The blue wallpaper has the sheen and weave of fabric.
At night, the man who says he’s my husband sleeps in the king-sized bed positioned next to my smaller one. During the day, he works on a laptop at a small wooden desk in the corner, prowls in front of those windows, or sits in a chair beside my bed.
The nurse pats the back of my hand, her skin dark brown and healthy against my pallid, chalky tone. There’s something no-nonsense and maternal about her.
Franny.The director of the group home. That’s who her manner reminds me of.
“You’re strong enough to weather the storm. Be proud of yourself. You earned it.”Franny’s words don’t apply to me anymore. But maybe I survived whatever happened to me because they once did. Now, my heart and mind are as fragile as my broken nails.
“I played soccer. I l-lived with Franny,” I rasp.
“See? You’re getting there,” the nurse says.
No. It’s like looking at a whiteboard someone has done a sloppy job erasing. The smears are there. The things I should remember but don’t. One new memory, especially an old one, isn’t enough.
