Tessa Leoni: Crash And Burn Part 4

"Is this the first incident?"

He hesitates and even I know that means it isn't.

Dr. Celik regards him sternly. "There is a strong corollary between brain injuries and alcohol misuse, particularly in patients with a history of alcohol dependency. And given not one, but three concussions in a matter of months, your wife is vulnerable. Even a single gla.s.s of wine will affect her more strongly in the short term, while putting her at long-term risk for substance abuse."

"I know."

"This latest accident will most certainly set her back. It's not uncommon to see an almost exponential effect from multiple TBIs in a short time frame. I'm not surprised her amnesia has returned. Most likely, she'll also experience intense headaches, difficulty focusing, severe exhaustion. She may also report sensitivity to light or some other heightened sensation-smell, sound, sight. Conversely, she might describe feeling as if she's 'under water'-can't quite make the world come into focus. Of course, such episodes may spike her anxiety and lead to increased mood swings."

"Great." The man's voice is grim.

"I would keep the household quiet. Establish a daily routine, stick to it."

"Sure. Just because she doesn't remember me is no reason for her not to do as I say."

The doctor continues as if he hasn't spoken: "You should expect her to tire easily. I would limit screen time-no video games, iPad usage, even TV shows and movies. Let her brain rest. Oh, and no driving."

"So . . . quiet home life, in bed by ten."

The doctor gives him a stern frown. In response, the man/my husband runs his hand through his rumpled hair.

I feel a whisper of memory. Standing in another room at another time.

Please, Nicky, let's not fight. Not again.

I realize I must have loved this man once. It's the only way to explain how much his presence hurts me now.

Dr. Celik is still talking about my ongoing needs, follow-up care. She's obviously familiar with my case. Multiple TBIs, she'd said. I feel like I should know what that means, but the letters won't stay still in my head. They flip upside down, backward, a dizzying display of alphabet acrobatics. I give up. My head hurts, the familiar sensation of a migraine building behind my temples.

I think of Vero, learning to fly.

I did have a dream. I can almost remember it, like a word on the tip of my tongue. Once, a long time ago, in a tiny apartment that smelled of stale cigarettes, greasy food and general hopelessness, I fantasized of green gra.s.s. I pictured open fields and places to run. I wished for the sun upon my face.

I yearned. A giant aching need that took me years to identify.

I yearned for someone to love me.

Oh, Vero, I'm so sorry.

Dr. Celik leaves. The man who is my husband returns to my side. His face is serious again, deep lines creasing his dark features. But again, not unattractive.

He tries to smile when he sees that I'm awake; it doesn't reach his eyes. He's worried. About me? Something else?

His collared s.h.i.+rt is light blue, unb.u.t.toned at his throat. My gaze focuses on the exposed patch of skin, sun-bronzed from years spent outside. For a fraction of an instant, I can picture myself kissing that spot, trailing my tongue along his collarbone. I don't just remember him. I can taste him. It makes me s.h.i.+ver.

"Hey there." He takes my hand, as if to rea.s.sure me. His thumb is calloused.

My head pounds again. I am suddenly, bone-numbingly tired.

He seems to know. "Headache?"

I can't talk. I just stare at him. His fingers release mine, rub my temples instead. I nearly sigh.

"Do you remember the accident?" he asks me.

I don't, but I can't speak yet, so I remain silent.

"According to the CT scan," he continues, "you've suffered another concussion, the third in six months. For that matter, you bruised your sternum, dislocated a few ribs, and earned enough st.i.tches to rival a quilt. But the ER docs have already done a nice job of patching you up. It's the concussion, your third concussion, which has the neurologist concerned."

"Causes . . . migraines," I murmur.

"Yes. Not to mention varying degrees of confusion, anxiety, general exhaustion, light sensitivity and short-term amnesia. Plus, you know, other minor complications such as not recognizing your own husband." He tries to sound lighthearted; it doesn't work. "Your memory will come back," he says, more seriously. "The headaches will fade. You'll regain your ability to focus and function. But it's going to take time. You need to rest, give your scrambled brain cells a chance to recover."

"Alcohol is bad."

He stills, regards me carefully with his dark-brown eyes. "Alcohol is not recommended for people suffering from traumatic brain injuries."

"But I drink."

"You did."

"I'm a drunk." He doesn't say anything, but I can see the answer on his face. That once upon a time, he thought he would be enough for me. Obviously, he isn't.

"What did you dream about when you were little?" I ask.

He frowns. He gets crow's-feet around his eyes when he frowns. It should age him, make him less attractive. But again, it doesn't.

"I don't know. Why do you ask?"

"Why not?"

He smiles. His thumbs are still moving on my temples, ma.s.saging little circles. This close, I can catch a hint of spice wafting from his skin, a clean, soapy fragrance that is both familiar and slightly intoxicating. If I could move, I would lean into him, inhale deeper.

But I don't. Instead, I feel a darkness growing in the back of my head. A feeling of dread to counteract the allure of his scent.

Run.

But of course, I can't. I lie on a hospital bed, pinned by white sheets and a concussed brain as my husband rubs my temples, strokes my hair.

"I dreamed the first time I saw you," he murmurs, his voice low and husky. "I spotted you, across the proverbial crowded room. You weren't looking at me at all. But I saw you and I . . . I felt I'd waited my whole life just for that moment. To find you. You consumed me, Nicky. You still do."

His breath feathers across my cheek. Once again, I respond to the scent, would turn my head if I could.

Run.

Then I see it, a faded bruise along his jawline. I can't help myself. I pull my arm from beneath the bedclothes. I touch the bruise, trace it with my fingertips, feel the rasp of morning whiskers he hasn't had a chance to shave. He doesn't retreat. But his fingers fall from my temples and I can tell he's holding his breath.

I inflicted that bruise. I know that without a shadow of a doubt. I hit this man. And I'd do it again, if given half the chance.

"You hate me," I whisper, not a question.

"Never," he says. An obvious lie.

"You hate me," he corrects, more quietly. "But you refuse to tell me why. Once, we were happy. And then . . . I still dream, Nicky. What about you?"

I've gone wrong, I think, taken a misstep. Because even if I don't remember who I am, I like to think I know what I once dreamed, and it wasn't this. It was never this.

Vero, I see her again, the image dark around the edges. Like the vision is fading from my tired mind, becoming impossible to focus. She turns, as if to walk away, and my first thought is to grab her hand. It's important to keep her. I can't let her go.

She looks at me. Her face is thinner, older, I realize with a start. She's not a toddler anymore, but a girl, maybe ten, eleven, twelve.

"Why me?" she asks, voice plaintive.

"Vero," I whisper.

"Shhh," my husband says.

"Why me, why me, why me?"

She's turning away again. Leaving me. I reach for her arm, but it slides free. I can't hold her. The world so dark. My head about to explode. Or maybe it already did.

"Vero!"

"Nicky, please!"

I'm thras.h.i.+ng. I'm fighting. I know that, but I don't know that. All that matters is that I get to Vero. He's going to keep me from her. I realize that now. And it's not the first time.

"Nurse, nurse!" Someone is yelling. The man who claims to be my husband is yelling.

Vero, Vero, Vero. She's walking away from me.

I run. In the hospital bed? In my mind's eye? Does it matter? I run; then I catch up to her. I snag her arm, hold on tight.

Vero turns.

As maggots burst from the empty sockets of her eyes and wriggle around her gleaming white skull.

"You should've told me that little girls were never meant to fly."

ONE MOMENT. ONE memory. Then it's gone.

And I'm no one at all, but a woman twice returned from the dead.

THE NURSE COMES. I don't fight anymore. I lay perfectly still as she administers the sedative. I stare straight ahead. Past the nurse's bent form. Past my husband's haggard face. I stare at the open doorway and the two detectives waiting for me there.

Chapter 6.

WYATT AND KEVIN arrived at the hospital just in time for the show. Their person of interest was thras.h.i.+ng wildly in the bed, while a man yelled for help and attempted to pin her down. Next came the nurse hustling in to administer a ma.s.sive dose of sedative, and there went Wyatt's best opportunity to get to the bottom of things.

Their female driver, Nicole Frank according to the vehicle's registration, pa.s.sed out cold. Only the man remained, breathing heavily and looking ragged around the edges.

Husband, Wyatt would guess. Or boyfriend. Whatever. Wyatt needed answers, he needed them now and he was willing to be flexible. He'd already sent a detective to the courthouse to request a search warrant for Mrs. Frank's medical records, which would include the woman's blood alcohol levels. He also had deputies backtracking from the accident site to neighboring liquor stores to prove exactly where and when she had purchased her eighteen-year-old bottle of scotch. In the short term, they were pursuing charges of aggravated DWI.

Of course, there still remained the issue of the missing child.

The nurse exited the room, barely sparing them a glance. That left the man. Late thirties to early forties. Six feet, one-eighty. Rugged sort of handsome, Wyatt thought women called it. Not a desk jockey, but a guy who actually worked for a living.

"Mr. Frank?" Wyatt took a guess.

"Yes?" He was staring at his wife with concern. Now he s.h.i.+fted his attention enough to shoot them an annoyed glance. Which Wyatt found interesting. a.s.suming the man's daughter was the one missing, shouldn't he be grateful to see two detectives? Even desperate, the concerned father demanding immediate answers? Instead his primary concern appeared to be his wife. Meaning he didn't care about the girl at all? Or he already knew what had happened to Vero and why they couldn't find her?

Wyatt felt the first thrum of adrenaline rush. He shot a look at Kevin, who seemed to share his suspicions. Both men, rather than surge forward immediately, instinctively fell back. In domestic situations, aggression rarely worked. Far better to be on the parent's side. Be cool, be calm, be conversational. Then, bit by bit, spool out enough rope for the parent to hang him- or herself.

Wyatt started the process. Polite, nonconfrontational: "Can we speak to you a moment?"

"My wife," the man started.

"Appears to be resting. We have some questions."

"You're the police," the man stated. But he wasn't arguing. He was heading toward them. He was going to play nice. Perfect.

Wyatt made the introductions, himself, then Kevin, earning the name Thomas Frank in return. Thomas, can I call you Tom? No, Thomas it is.

Wyatt offered the man some coffee. Another friendly gesture. This time of late morning, the hospital was a busy place, so maybe they could find a quiet corner to chat. When the husband appeared undecided, Wyatt and Kevin simply started walking down the overlit hallway to the hospital cafeteria. Sure enough, the husband fell into step behind them, too tired to argue.

One coffee purchase later, they had Mr. Frank tucked behind a fake ficus tree and it was time to get down to business.

"How do you know Nicole Frank?" Wyatt asked, just to be sure about things.

"Nicky? She's my wife."

"Been together long?"

Thomas Frank smiled thinly. "I know it sounds corny, but for me, she's always been the one. First time I saw her, I just knew."

"How'd you meet?"