Crash & Burn (5 page)

“Neither do I.” Wyatt headed back to the edge of the ravine, peering down at the meandering trail they'd just followed. So someone—the missing child?—had made it this far, and then . . .

“Sir.”

Wyatt turned to see Officer Todd Reynes standing by him. “Todd,” Wyatt greeted him. “Heard you were the first responder. Thanks for taking the lead in looking for the missing kid.”

“Not a problem. Sir, that's the search dog, right?”

“Yep. Her name's Annie. Young, we're told, but did a good job tracking the trail this far. Now, however, you can tell she's a little frustrated.”

“She's lost the scent?”

“Apparently.”

“I think I might know why.”

Wyatt arched a brow. “By all means, Officer,” he said, indicating for the man to explain.

“See that sign there?”

Wyatt turned toward the roadside. Sure enough, fifteen feet down was a yellow caution sign warning of the sharp turn ahead.

“When I first arrived on scene, I noticed the caution sign because Daniel Ledo, the man who placed the initial call, was standing beside it. While right about there”—Reynes pointed to Annie, still lying on the ground, gazing up at her handler mutinously—“was the ambulance.”

Wyatt straightened. “You're saying—”

“That's where the EMTs loaded the driver onto the stretcher.”

Wyatt closed his eyes. He got it now. The scent the dog had picked up, the trail they had just followed up the ravine. Not the missing child's after all, but the driver's.

“Always the risk,” he muttered. “I mean, you can tell the dog to track, but you can't tell her who to follow.”

He crossed to Frechette to break the news. Frechette reiterated that his dog needed a break, but in twenty or thirty minutes, they could try again.

Which they did. Twice, with the same results.

According to Annie, one scent came out of the vehicle. One scent trailed up to the road. They circled her around the wreck. They brought her to the fast-flowing stream.

Annie grew increasingly sullen and resentful. She'd done her job.

One scent. One trail. One person, who mysteriously disappeared in the middle of the paved road.

That was Annie's story, and she was sticking to it.

“Houston,” Wyatt declared shortly after 10
A.M.
, “we have a problem.”

W
HAT
DID
YOU
dream of when you were little? Did you plan on growing up to be an astronaut or a ballerina or maybe even a superhero with a red cape and the ability to leap tall buildings in a single bound? Maybe you were going to be a lawyer like your mother or a fireman like your father. Or perhaps you couldn't identify with your family at all. You mostly dreamed about getting the hell out and never looking back.

But you dreamed.

Everyone dreams. Little boys, little girls, ghetto-born, white-picket raised. Everyone aspires to be someone, do something.

I should have dreams, I think, but for the life of me, I can't remember what they are.

The doctor is in the room. She stands near the door, talking to the man who claims to be my husband. Their heads are together and they speak in hushed tones, like lovers, I think, but don't know why.

“Before the accident, was she sleeping any better?” the doctor asks.

“No, few hours a night at best.”

“How about her headaches?”

“Still bad. She doesn't say anything anymore. I just find her lying on the sofa, an ice pack across her forehead.”

“Mood?”

The man gives a short bark of laughter. “On a good day, merely depressed. On a bad day, fit to kill.”

The doctor nods. Her name tag reads
DR
.
SARE
CELIK
. She is
beautiful, with dark coloring and exotic features. I wonder once again about her relationship with my husband. “Emotional lability is a common side effect of post-concussive syndrome,” she is explaining. “Often for loved ones, it's the most difficult. How about her memory? Short-term recollections better?”

“When she first regained consciousness, she claimed not to recognize me at all.”

Dr. Celik arches a brow, finally appearing surprised. She flips through a chart in her hand. “Needless to say, I ordered a head CT, not to mention an emergency MRI upon admittance. Both came back clear, but given her past history of TBIs, I'll order follow-ups in the next twenty-four hours. How did she handle the situation? Agitation? Rage? Tears?”

“Nothing. It was like . . . She claimed to not know I was her husband, yet the news didn't surprise her.”

“She'd been drinking before the accident.”

My husband flushes guiltily, as if somehow this is his fault. “I thought I got all the bottles out of the house,” he mutters.

“Please remember what I told you before: Alcohol directly impedes the brain's ability to heal. Meaning for someone with her condition, any alcoholic drink at all is counterproductive to her recovery.”

“I know.”

“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 glass 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 grass. 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 shirt is light blue, unbuttoned 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 shiver.

“Hey there.” He takes my hand, as if to reassure 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 stitches 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, massaging 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 thrashing. 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.”

*   *   *

O
NE
MOMENT
.
O
NE
memory. Then it's gone.

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

*   *   *

T
HE
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.