Smoky Mountain Dreams (52 page)

“Um, where should I start?” he asked, his voice feeling
weird and not his own. Any second he was going to blurt out that he was Jesse
Birch’s boyfriend and that Jesse didn’t even know he was here right now. The
urge to confess that he was in love with one of the patient’s husbands was
strong, as was the need to admit in some rambling, babbling way that it was
probable that said husband wouldn’t want him here at all.

“Room one thirty-two would be good,” Jason said, glancing at
some monitors. “Looks like Marcy’s awake. But I should warn you, even if her
eyes are open, she doesn’t really hear you, dude. So, don’t freak out if she
suddenly makes a noise or something. I dunno why Monique insists on performers
playing for these patients, but…” He shrugged.

“A noise?” Christopher asked weakly.

“Vocalizations,” Natalie said, also studying a monitor of
some sort. “She sometimes sounds like she’s trying to talk. But she can’t. It’s
all instinct, basically, and nothing more. But it can be freaky if you’re not
expecting it.” The pretty young nurse looked up and smiled. “So just don’t
freak out.”

Christopher nodded and turned to the room and the name he’d
already noticed on the door. He hesitated, a heavy, oppressive doubt holding
him in place.

“Do you want me to go in with you?” Jason asked, a note of
sympathy in his voice. “We shouldn’t have made it sound so creepy. She’s
harmless. I promise.”

Christopher threw a tremulous smile at Jason for the
encouragement and took a step toward the open door, his gut churning and his
pulse rushing loudly in his ears. And then he was in the room. The woman in the
bed looked nothing like the beautiful laughing woman in the photograph in Jesse’s
upstairs hallway. The woman in the bed was terrifyingly thin while also being
blobby in some way Christopher didn’t understand.

Her eyes were open.

There was absolutely nothing in them.

Christopher shuddered, his grip on his guitar sliding as his
palm grew slippery with sweat. He swallowed hard and walked closer, his eyes
cataloging what he could still see of the woman from the photos. He could see
Brigid’s brown eyes. He could see that she’d once had glossy blond hair. He
could see that her mouth was the same shape. But that was it. This woman was a
body. A shell.

Christopher sat in the chair by her bed and fought down his
rising gorge. He wanted to cry and throw up. He wanted to go back in time and
never enter this room, because he shouldn’t be seeing this, not without Jesse’s
permission. He knew now what he hadn’t known before: exactly why Jesse hadn’t
invited him in. It was like seeing a person naked without their consent, only
somehow worse. He was seeing her, but she wasn’t seeing him. He knew her and
how she fit into his life, and she didn’t know and couldn’t know anything about
him. He was fucking her husband and she was a corpse that lived.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and tried to figure out
what to do. He’d been sent in here to sing hadn’t he? How was he going to sing
now without puking or sobbing? But he somehow brought the guitar up, and his
fingers stumbled through picking out the melody of “I Saw Three Ships.” After
closing his eyes, he managed to sing the lyrics, the hope in them barely
sustained by the pain in his voice, bleeding his sorrow and confusion out all
over the room.

As the song drew to an end, he cast about in his mind,
trying to figure out what he should sing next. Before he knew what he was
doing, he started a slow transition into the song he’d written for Jesse,
almost like the confession he’d wanted to give to the nurses couldn’t be denied
to the woman in the bed. He switched to a minor key, though, unable to sing
joyfully in the face of what he now knew, and the song came out mournful and
miserable as tears welled up in his eyes.

Fuck, how must Jesse feel if just being in her presence was
tearing Christopher up inside? This woman had been Jesse’s wife—the girl he’d
loved, the mother of his children—and even though their marriage had been
rocky, he’d never stopped loving her.

Christopher slipped into another song when he finished, and
it was only as he found himself seeking words that he realized it was a new
melody, something he was creating on the spot. Something that had to do with
Marcy and his pain for all that had been lost.

“
Sitting at the corner of life and
death, and all that keeps us warm and all that freezes us.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Christopher’s eyes flew open and his grip on his guitar
slipped, sounding a discordant chord as he scrambled to catch it. Jesse was
frozen in the doorway wearing jeans and a soft blue Henley, flowers in hand,
and an expression of pure rage. Christopher had never seen his face so pale or
his eyes so dark.

“How did you get in here?” Jesse said again, his voice
barely a whisper. The flowers shook in his grip. “Who let you in? You’re not on
the list.”

“I—I’m singing for the patients,” Christopher said, his
throat tight enough that his voice came out in a terrified squeak. “Shannon
couldn’t and I—please, Jesse, don’t be angry.”

“You have no right to be here.” Jesse’s nostrils flared. “She
is not your business, do you understand? Nothing about her will
ever
be your business.”

Christopher blinked at Jesse, his fingers slipping over the
strings again and high pitched noises vibrating from the guitar. He should get
up, but he felt like a deer in headlights. “Jesse, listen, I didn’t mean to—I
just wanted to—”

“You need to get out.” Jesse’s jaw was clenched so tightly
the words sounded like a growl.

“What’s going on?” Jason asked, appearing at Jesse’s
shoulder. “Mr. Ryder is here to sing for the patients. Mrs. VanHook has always
wanted Marcy to have the same experiences as the other residents.”

“He isn’t the same as other volunteers,” Jesse bit out. “He
shouldn’t be here.”

Jason looked at Christopher then as if he might be
dangerous, and he muscled past Jesse like he might grab hold of Christopher or
physically restrain him. Shock settled over Christopher as he realized that
Jesse might not even stop him.

“Mr. Birch, we’re so sorry. We had no idea!” Natalie
exclaimed, moving in behind Jesse. “Should we call the police?”

Jesse seemed to realize Jason’s intentions at that point and
shook himself out of his glaring rage to say, “The police? No. That’s
unnecessary.” He rubbed a hand over his face, looking exhausted and furious. “Just…leave
us. It’s fine. He’s fine.”

“But sir, you just said he shouldn’t be in here?” Natalie
sounded as confused as Jason looked.

Christopher shook with pain and anger as he jerked up from
the chair. He felt like he’d been punched. Everything hurt. His gut, his heart,
even his fucking balls—and his throat was so tight he could barely breathe. “It’s
a misunderstanding,” he forced out. “I’ll leave. It’s fine.”

“No,” Jesse said, glaring at him. “Sit down.”

Jason and Natalie looked at each other, and Natalie said, “I’ll
just get Monique.”

“No!” Jesse barked, and then sighed. “Both of you can leave.
Mrs. Birch is fine. I just need to speak to Mr. Ryder for a minute.”

Mr. Ryder?
Christopher felt like
someone had ripped him free of his body and like he was rising up, up, up in
some weird disconnected way, even while he felt every thud of his heart and the
cold sweat that had broken out over him at the sight of Jesse’s fury.

Jason still looked uncertain. “If Mrs. Birch isn’t safe,
sir, then—”

“She’s safe.” Jesse glowered at them. “Mr. Ryder’s right. It’s
a misunderstanding. He wouldn’t hurt her. Just leave. Everything is fine.”

Neither of them seemed especially convinced, but they walked
out of the room, conferring under their breath. Christopher was sure they’d
summon Monique despite Jesse’s demand that they not.

“You have completely overstepped your boundaries,” Jesse
said quietly. “You have no right to be here.”

“I’m here to fill in for my friend Shannon, who—”

“You knew damn well I didn’t want you to see her. That you
had no right at all to look at her.”

“Listen, this isn’t about me
looking at
her
,” he spit out, anger spiking through him now. “It’s about me singing
my goddamn songs to goddamn patients in this fucking nursing home.”

“Watch your language! There are old people here. Show some
fucking respect.”

Christopher sputtered. “Are you kidding me?”

“I’m not. I’m not kidding you at all.” Jesse was clutching
the flowers so hard that the stems bent. “I want you out of here and you are
never to come back.”

Christopher head went back as if he’d been slapped. The wind
went out of him, and he stared at Jesse. “Why? Because I did my friend a favor
and sang for some old people and for a patient that happened to be your wife?”

“Because you
knew
I didn’t want
you here. You violated my wife by coming here.”

“I didn’t.” It was a lie. Christopher felt like he’d
violated her too, but he hadn’t done it on purpose, for fuck’s sake.

“You did. And you know it. Is your curiosity satisfied? Are
you fucking happy now? Did it give you pleasure to see her this way?”

Pleasure.
Was that what Jesse
thought of him? That he’d actually delight in seeing Marcy like this? “No,”
Christopher whispered. “I’m not happy at all.”

Jesse snorted and shook his head. “The only visitors on her
list are family. That should tell you something.”

His gut twisted and he thought he really might throw up. “I
thought I was starting to be part of your family.”

“You’re not part of
this
family,”
Jesse said coldly. “Just go. I don’t want to see you until I have a chance to
calm down. I’ll say something I’ll regret.”

“Like that I’m not part of your family? Too late.”

Jesse hurled the flowers down on the bed, decorating Marcy’s
covered legs and the blanket in pink and yellow petals. “I never said that. I
said you’re not part of
her
family. You had no right
to come here. No right to see her like this.”

“I didn’t mean to. I didn’t even want to.”

“Bullshit!”

Christopher swallowed. “Why?” he managed to get the word out
around the lump of hurt, rage, and tears in his throat. “Why are you acting
like this? Why is it so awful that I was here?” But he knew. He’d known the
moment he saw her. Because he didn’t deserve to know this yet. Maybe he never
would.

“If you don’t know the answer to that…” Jesse closed his
eyes, and then shook his head. “Fuck it, leave. I don’t want you here and I’m
not going to say it again: you need to get out.”

This time, Christopher obeyed. He didn’t even stop by the
lounge to get his guitar case. He’d grab it another time or have Shannon pick
it up for him. All he could think was that he had to get out before something
worse happened—before there was shouting, or a definitive breakup, or Jesse
said something that Christopher couldn’t ever forgive him for. It was already
bad enough. It already hurt like someone was cutting his soul free from his
body.

Jesse’s car was next to the red Yaris, and Christopher
realized that Jesse probably had worked up assumptions about Christopher’s
presence at the nursing home from the moment he parked. Christopher tore out of
the parking lot, a pain in his chest like a stone where his heart was, like a
pressure that he couldn’t breathe around—like someone cracking open his ribs.

He didn’t remember the drive home.

J
ESSE
HAD BARELY BEEN ABLE
to field Monique’s questions when she’d arrived in
the minutes after Christopher had finally left. He’d reassured her that
Christopher was not a danger to any of the residents and that his reaction had
been a purely personal one. Monique had seemed confused by it all, but she’d
known enough to withdraw and leave Jesse alone with his wife. He heard the
whispers from where Monique still stood with Jason and Natalie in the hall, but
he didn’t give a fuck. When he finally left, he didn’t say goodbye to any of
them.

He needed a drink.

After pulling into the parking garage across from Christ in
the Smokies back in Gatlinburg, Jesse opened his text messages. The last one
was from Christopher from that morning telling Jesse he’d call after he
recorded some songs. How had he ended up in Marcy’s room? The memory of seeing
Christopher’s beautiful face next to Marcy’s bloated one ripped through Jesse,
and he clenched his fist around his phone, wanting to throw it against the
windshield. Instead, he took some deep breaths and calmed himself enough to
text his sister and ask her to meet him for drinks at Puckers.

He knew the moment he walked into the sports bar that he
shouldn’t have chosen a place he’d gone to with Christopher. One look around
the room reminded him of the night Christopher had discovered Marcy wasn’t
dead, and the emotional evening that had followed.