Cherish (Covet #1.5) (7 page)

“Why?”

“When Dylan and I came to your house to get your clothes, the code he punched in didn’t work, which means you changed it from the one you’d given him. You should have seen his face when he realized he could no longer let himself into your house. Do you remember why you changed it?”

I thought I was doing so well by remembering the code, but I’ll be damned if I can come up with why I would have changed it in the first place. I rifle through my shitty short-term memory, trying to recall the details. My frustration mounts. I think it had something to do with Dylan and Claire, but that’s all I can come up with. Finally I shrug. “I don’t know why I changed it.”

“Dylan doesn’t know this code. I’ll leave it up to you whether you want to give it to him or not.”

In the garage, my eyes are drawn to the motorcycle parked next to my car. Despite what Jess said about me riding again someday, I’m unable to fathom that possibility. Sometimes I can’t even walk straight. But there are memories floating around about this motorcycle, all of them good. Jess waits patiently as I stand beside the bike, and when I finally snap out of it, she opens the door that leads from the garage into the kitchen.

Once we’re inside, she unpacks my bags and starts a load of laundry. I’ve been gone so long that I feel like a guest in my own home. I wander through the rooms and find Jess in the spare bedroom where I keep my treadmill and weight bench, along with other assorted boxes that I never bothered to unpack when I moved out of my old house and into this one.

She’s standing in front of the empty closet. “Do you have some extra hangers?” she asks.

“You don’t have to put your clothes in here. You’re welcome to hang them with mine.”

“I don’t want them to be in your way. This is fine.”

“I’m sure there are extra hangers in my closet. Help yourself.” Before I leave the room, I turn and say, “So…‌I only have one bed.”

“The couch is fine.”

“You don’t have to sleep on the couch. I have a very comfortable king-size bed, and there’s no reason for you not to sleep in it with me.”

“I don’t mind.”

The practical side of me says that it’s stupid for us not to share a bed, especially since we’ve been sleeping together since the early nineties. But I won’t push it.

“All right.”

The house is clean and I noticed when we pulled into the driveway that the yard had been recently mowed. “Did you mow the lawn?” I ask. “And clean the house?”

“I hired someone to take care of the lawn. Nice kid. Drives a truck and brings his own mower. I cleaned yesterday after I left the hospital.”

“You thought of everything.” I sit down on the couch and literally twiddle my thumbs.

Jess sits down beside me. “Is everything okay?”

“I have no idea what to do with myself.”

“If you’re going stir-crazy, we could go out dinner. What about Bella Cucina? You love that place.”

“I don’t want to go out.”

“But you love Italian food.”

I could explain to Jess that I don’t feel comfortable going out in the real world. Though I hated the confines of the hospital, I’m not quite ready to leave the house yet. We just got here, and I need time a little more time to get used to a different environment.

“I’d rather you cook for me. I like your cooking better.” I’m pretty sure that statement is true. I seem to remember Jess being a great cook.

“Okay,” she says, trying her best to placate me. “I’d love to cook for you. Is there anything special you want?”

“If you remember what any of my favorites are, you can choose one of them.”

“I remember. I’ll make a list and go to the store.”

“Take my wallet. It’s on the counter in the kitchen.”

Before she leaves, she clicks on the TV, and the whole time she’s gone I sit on the couch because nothing seems pressing enough to make me get up from it.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

JESSIE

A few days later when I’m in the kitchen unloading the dishwasher, I hear the crash. The sound came from the living room, and when I round the corner I see Daniel sprawled out on the floor next to the coffee table.

“Daniel!”

He isn’t moving.

When I crouch down next to him, his eyes are wide with confusion.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Just lost my balance,” he mumbles.

“Did you hit your head?”

“No. I’m fine.” His breath is coming in short, staccato bursts, as if the wind has been knocked out of him and he’s trying to find his natural rhythm.

“Take slow, deep breaths, okay?”

I stroke his head as he closes his eyes and nods. There’s something so vulnerable, almost pathetic, about Daniel right now. He’s been doing well, and a setback like this, no matter how minor, has probably rattled him a bit.

“All right. Let’s get you up.”

He may still be underweight, but it’s no easy task getting a one-hundred-and-ninety-pound man up off the floor. At least his equilibrium seems to have returned to normal because, once we’re finally upright, his footing seems solid and he doesn’t sway. But he keeps his arm wrapped tightly around my shoulder.

“I don’t know what happened,” he says. “That came out of nowhere.”

“It’s okay. The doctor said it might happen.” At that exact moment, I know we’re both thinking about the motorcycle parked in the garage and how it will be parked there indefinitely. “Do you want to sit on the couch?”

“I want to go to bed. I’m tired.”

“Okay.”

He lets me lead him down the hall, the two of us doing an awkward side-by-side shuffle since he still has his arm around my shoulder and I’ve wrapped my arm tightly around his waist. In the bedroom, I pull back the covers and he slips under them.

“Can I get you anything?”

“No.” His voice sounds so dejected and I feel the prickle of tears.

Before I leave the room he says, so softly I almost don’t hear it, “There are so many things I can’t remember.”

“The memories will return eventually. We just have to be patient.”

“Things about Gabriel.” His words slice through my heart because memories are the only thing Daniel has left of his son. Those memories are burned into my brain. All of them: the good, the bad, the horrifying, the heartbreaking. Every single one. After Gabriel died, I temporarily pushed them away, telling myself I would go back to them when I was stronger.

“I’ll tell you all about him. I’ll fill in the blanks so you can remember.”

He doesn’t answer.

“I’ll just be out here if you need me,” I say, and then I close the door and let him be.

CHAPTER TWENTY

JESSIE

Now that we’re home, Daniel’s progress isn’t so easy to measure. There’s no way to accurately gauge where you are on the “get your life back” scale. Due in part to Daniel’s constant urging, Mimi and Jerry have finally left to resume their motor-home tour. Dylan’s whereabouts are temporarily unknown.

My parents stopped by the other day, bringing with them my mom’s homemade peach pie, which has always been a favorite of Daniel’s. But for the most part, Daniel’s visitors have slowed to a trickle, and there is no longer a constant influx of policemen and friends, which is to be expected. Now it’s just the two of us, and I’m more aware of how narrowly focused our day-to-day activities have become.

I still adhere to a schedule because the consistency is good for Daniel. He has outpatient therapy every morning, and then I work with him at home, doing the memory exercises the therapists asked us to complete. Daniel seems reluctant to go anywhere that isn’t a doctor’s office or a therapy appointment. The house is his sanctuary, and the only time he appears fully relaxed is when we’re home.

I continue to suggest that we go out for lunch or dinner, but he’s not interested. Daniel used to beg me to leave the house with him after Gabriel died. To go out for a meal or to see a movie. I always said no. How dare my husband and I enjoy a night out when our son was dead? Now that I’m on the opposite side of it, I know how frustrating it feels to be turned down when all you’re trying to do is help someone. The more I try to coax him out of his shell, the more he seems to be withdrawing. He smiles less. He doesn’t laugh at all.

“Do you want to come with me to Target?” I ask, trying my best not to speak to him like he’s a child and Target is an exciting outing.

“I’ll stay here.”

I start to ask him if he’s sure, but then I close my mouth and say, “Okay.” He’s a grown man. If he wanted to come with me to Target, he’d come with me to Target.

When I return, I haul the bags in from the car and set them on the kitchen counter. I find Daniel lying on the couch with his eyes closed.

“Look what I found on the clearance rack,” I say, holding up the DVD of
Foul Play
. “Can you believe it?”

He opens his eyes and gives me a blank look.

“Come on, not even a smile for one of your favorite movies? I bought some Coke and I’ll make popcorn. We can dump in some M&M’s if you want.”

He rises from couch. “I think I’ll just lie down in my bed. I have a headache.”

“You have a headache?”

“Yes, a bullet will do that.” He doesn’t sound mad, just weary.

“Do you need any help?”

“No, Jess. I think I can walk down the hallway by myself.”

Daniel’s doctors and therapists told us that depression is a common problem after a traumatic brain injury and that over half the people who suffer such an injury will experience periods of depression during the first year of their recovery. It’s partly due to the physical changes in the brain, but some of it can be attributed to the frustration patients feel in the shift of their daily activities and the change in their employment status. The doctors all say Daniel should be able to return to his job as a police officer once he’s been cleared medically and passed the driving test, but that seems light-years away right now. Adjusting to his disability has been Daniel’s biggest challenge, and I often have to remind him that it’s temporary.

“Well, right now it feels very permanent,” he’d said.

I thought Daniel might be one of the lucky ones because his mood has remained relatively upbeat.

Until now. As he passes me, I reach out and lay my hand on his arm. “I think you might be experiencing a depressive episode.”

And if anyone knows what that’s like, it’s me. “The doctor told us you might have one,” I add.

“I lost my son, I lost my wife, I got shot in the head. I think I’m entitled to a depressive episode.”

“You didn’t lose me,” I whisper, but by then he’s halfway down the hall.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

JESSIE

As summer gives way to fall, Daniel’s cognitive abilities improve, but his mood worsens. He’s listless and irritable and spends a lot of time in bed. Getting enough sleep is important, but the time he spends between the sheets doesn’t seem restorative. It seems to me that Daniel takes to his bed because everything else feels too daunting.

His cognitive therapist—a soft-spoken man named Don who’s in his early fifties—pulls me aside one day before Daniel’s appointment. “How are things going at home?” he asks lightly. His tone is conversational, but I can tell he’s concerned.

“I’m worried about Daniel. The depression no longer seems episodic. It’s pretty much constant now. I was actually going to call you for some advice. See if there are some things I can do to help him.” I know what helped me: counseling, exercise, and six months on a low-dosage antidepressant. But everyone is different, and I have no idea what the best course of action is for Daniel, especially since the origin of his depression is somewhat different than mine.

“I’ll discuss it with him today. There are lots of options. I’ll see if he’s amenable to trying one or a combination of them.”

“I hope he opens up to you. He doesn’t seem to want to talk about it with me.”

Don smiles. “I’ll give it my best shot.”

Later, on our way home I say, “How did the appointment go?”

Daniel shrugs. “About the same.”

“Did you and Don discuss anything specific?”

“You mean did we talk about my depression?” His tone is flat, weary almost.

“Yes, actually.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m sure you don’t.”

I didn’t want to talk about it either when Daniel broached the subject of my depression with
me
. That’s the thing about being depressed. The last thing the depressed person wants to talk about is their depression. It’s so much easier to deny it and hope it goes away on its own.

“Then don’t ask about it again,” he snaps.

I flip on my turn signal. “We both know I’m going to keep asking.” If looks could kill, I’d be a smoldering pile of ash in the driver’s seat.

He leans his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes. “Just let it go, Jess.”

“Sorry. I can’t do that either.”

He clenches his jaw and refuses to even look in my direction for the rest of the drive home. He’s not actually mad at me; he’s mad about the shooting and the chaos his life has become, and
I
get it
. It’s the same way I felt after Gabriel died. I needed someone to blame, someone to absorb that anger. Even though I knew with every ounce of my rational being that what happened to Gabriel wasn’t Daniel’s fault, my anger built until I felt I had no choice but to lob an emotional grenade at the one I loved most, like some tragic game of hot potato. I just couldn’t bear it another minute.

I’m going to be more firm with Daniel than he ever was with me. Letting him get away with not seeking treatment, not fighting this head-on, will only make things worse. It’s what everyone did with me, when what I really needed was a firm hand. I let my depression go untreated as long as I did because I
could
. I have my sister Trish to thank for finally setting me straight. One day she came over to my apartment, yanked back my covers, and asked me how much longer I was going to wallow in my grief. She made me get up and walk outside with her. “This is what it’s like to feel the sun on your face,” she said. “You’ll be okay, but you’re going to have to put forth the effort to find your way back, and it starts now.”