When I See You (24 page)

"All the time," Brock says with a forced laugh. "I keep hoping I'll see something,
anything
, but I never do."

"How's your headache?"

"You want the truth or you want me to lie?"

"I always want the truth."

"I feel worse than I did at the airport."

"Fine. Let's get you to bed. I'll help your mom with dinner and bring you some tea and something to eat."

"You don't have to wait on me."

"I'm not." I stand up and pull Brock to his feet. He seems surprised by my actions. "Lean into me a little bit. We'll get you to bed. We can talk about the estate stuff tomorrow."

"I guess one more day isn't going to hurt," he says. "But, Jordan, we really do need to talk about all of it." He looks anxious. I'm not sure if it's from his headache or something else, but when I ask him about it, he tells me it's nothing.

*≈*≈*

Chapter 14. Satellite

Brock

Influenza prevents the estate discussion from taking place. I've been bed-ridden for the past day, quarantined, actually. Max and Jordan are off-limits from me because of youth and guest status. But separation doesn't do any good because eventually, both mother and son come down with the same symptoms as me: high fever, headache, nausea—the works—influenza.

Max shuffles in first. The little boy sniffles as he crawls into bed with me. My mother rushes in, clucking in her familiar, motherly tone, yet, once, she ascertains he's running a fever; she lets him stay.

Then, an hour later, Jordan arrives. She sounds weak and just as sick as me, cajoling Max to leave and come back to her bed.

"It's late. You can see Brock in the morning."

"No. I want to stay with Brock. And you, mommy."

"Max, please. Mommy doesn't feel well, either."

"Let's stay here with Brock. I
never
get to see him."

I think she puts on a brave front, but she finally succumbs with an exasperated sigh. I feel her crawl in next to me in this king-size bed in my bedroom.

"I'll just stay a few minutes until he falls asleep," Jordan murmurs. "Is it all right with you if he stays?"

"It's all right," I say.

My heart races with her unexpected presence in my bed, but I keep my breathing shallow and steady. It's ironic. This special kind of torture God plans just for me. The woman who haunts me—this goddess in all of my dreams now—is finally next to me. Only, I can't see her.

After a long while, I hear her slip away. I turn my head toward her sound.

"Good night, Brock," she says softly. "I'll come get him in the morning."

I don't say anything. I'm incapable of saying anything. I listen in the swollen blackness for her, but there's nothing more. My reverie, in imagining Jordan still standing there in the doorway, is interrupted, when Max rolls over my way. His arm lands hard at my chest. I catch my breath, reach out for the blankets he's thrown off in his sleep, and cover us both back up again, and curse the forever darkness.

≈ ≈

Early Sunday morning, I get up with Max. He's vomiting up the last of dinner from the night before and Candy Corn, he informs me. His little voice echoes up from the toilet rim along with regular intervals of his retching. I feel around for a wash cloth and wet it at the sink. Fumbling. Fumbling in the dark.

"It's okay, Max. It's just the flu. You'll feel better after this. I promise."

In my black world, I wave my hand through air until I feel his head and then wipe his face and neck with the wash cloth. My hands run over the tile countertop until I reach the cool porcelain sink. In ransacking the drawers, I come across a plastic wrapped toothbrush, swab it with toothpaste and hand it to my patient.

"Mommy brushes my teeth for me."

He's crying softly now. I take it back from him, feel around for his lips, and gently swish it through his little mouth. The Navy's spent thousands of dollars on rehabilitation for me at Criss Cole Rehabilitation Center, and just look at me now. Mr. Independent. I hold tighter onto Max and put my free hand under his chin and work the toothbrush around in his mouth with the other a little longer.

"It's kinda spicy," he says after a minute.

"Yeah. Sorry about that. We'll get you something else in the morning. Okay, buddy?"

He nods into my hand. I actually smile. Max makes me feel normal. He's the only one. I help him rinse his mouth by showing him how to cup his hands together and rinse with the tap water. He seems to cheer up a bit. He slips his wet hand into mine and hugs me at the waist.

"So," I say. "Do you need fresh pajamas?"

"Can't I sleep in my underwear like you?"

"Sure, I suppose for tonight you can."

I help him strip off his soiled clothing and gently wipe his hands one more time.

"Now, tell me about this mess. I think there's some towels here I can wipe it up with. Wouldn't want your mom to step into it."

"Aren't those the good towels?" Max whispers.

I feel the embroidered "W" logo under my fingertips and start to laugh. "You're right. Okay."

Properly chastised by a four-year-old, I grab a rustic towel from under the sink and feel around for some kind of cleaning spray. For once, I guess I'm glad that my mother had them label everything in here in Braille. I hold out the bottle, point out the special label to Max and take his hand and run it along the raised dots.

"That's says cleaning solution for the bathroom. Pretty neat, huh?"

"Really neat," he says.

I hear his tired yawn, wait for him to go to the bathroom one last time, and help him wash his hands. Then, I quietly direct him back to bed and tuck him in.

Within a few minutes, I have the bathroom reasonably cleaned, I think. I turn at the sound of the door opening, expecting to hear Max's voice.

"What are you doing in the dark?" Jordan asks.

"Max got sick. I'm just cleaning up."

"Here, let me help." She kneels beside me.

"No. I've got it. You should get your rest. This flu is pretty bad; it's going to knock you out for a while."

"Let me help you," she says. Jordan grabs my arm and takes the cleaning solution away from me.

"Jordan, I've got this."

"Brock, try not to be so stubborn. You've got to let people help you."

"That's not what the Criss Cole people say."

"Well, maybe they don't know everything." Her tone is teasing, not as guarded as she's been since her arrival just yesterday.

I start to smile. "Maybe not."

I stand up, suddenly self-conscious. I'm in nothing more than boxers and a t-shirt. I move to the sink and wash my hands. When I finish, she's pressing a fresh towel in my hands.

"Thanks," I say.

I fumble my way in the blackness, giving up on the idea of looking cool as I try to find my way back to the bed. I start to slide in, but discover a sleeping Max has completely taken over my side.

"Can you carry him to my room?" Jordan asks from just behind me.

I gently pick him up and lay him across my shoulder. "Where to?"

She's there, pushing me forward. "Let's just take the short cut back through the bathroom. I left the door open at the other end."

"Lead the way," I say.

Max moans in my arms, but he's out for the most part. I know Jordan gave him some medicine earlier. After a long twenty steps, I feel the edge of the mattress at my knees, lay Max down, and hear the rustle of bed sheets as Jordan must cover him.

"Thanks," she whispers.

"No problem. How are you feeling?"

"Better. I don't usually get sick. So, after a twelve-hour bout where I'm sure I'm going to die, I recover," she says with a soft laugh.

"Are you hungry?" I ask.

"Starving."

"Janie was trying to sell me on some chocolate cake earlier. I refused at the time, but now, that sounds good."

"It does."

She takes my hand and pulls me along to the hallway where the coolness of the wood floor hits my bare feet while the warmth of her touch courses through the rest of me. With her guidance, I follow her down the stairs. Me, swimming in the blackness; she, serving as my eyes.

I slide onto one of the bar stools at the kitchen counter and try to appear nonchalant as if raiding the kitchen with Jordan Holloway was something I do every night.

"What about pancakes?" she asks.

I detect a hint of a smile from her. "Pancakes would be great."

"Good."

The muted sound of her movements as she must sift through a series of pots and pans proves entertaining. She seems comfortable at making herself at home in my mother's kitchen. I'm a little surprised, but don't say anything. I'm reminded of Ethan and all those hours we spent together side-by-side in companionable silence. Being with Jordan has a similar effect on me. The minutes slide by. Time is still indeterminable, just like it was in Afghanistan with Ethan, but, at least, there, I could see it. I could see it all.

I listen to her as she whisks the batter in a metal bowl. The swishing sound eerily comforts me on some level.

"Do you miss the restaurant?" I ask, wincing at the sudden realization that I've been remiss in asking her about Le Reve at all, since her arrival. "How did you get away, anyway?"

She sighs. "Louis. The owner? He made me take a break. He said I couldn't go on pretending everything was all right and that nothing had changed. He said I needed to deal with the grief. Take a break. I probably shouldn't have lost it with one of the suppliers about a mixed-up delivery, and I'm pretty sure that locking myself away in the walk-in freezer and staying there for a few hours didn't help." She sighs. "That's why we came to Austin."

"Louis is a good guy. He's right. You need to take a break. You're an awesome chef. You'll be back at Le Reve in no time."

"You think so?"

"I spent some time with him the night we ate there. He said you were an amazing talent and he was lucky to have you."

"
Louis
said that?"

"Yes." I decide to change topics. "You mean you're not here for the surprise party?"

"You're not supposed to know about that."

I start to laugh. "My mother is the worst at keeping secrets. I used to find the presents from Santa every year. The woman has the RSVP calls ringing at the house. Who does she think is answering the phone?"

"It's a big deal getting the Medal of Honor. It's this coming Wednesday, right? Do you feel well enough?"

"Yes, Wednesday. It's fine. I'm fine. My mother always makes a big deal out of stuff like that." I shake my head.

"It
is
a big deal."

"I just want to
see
, so I can go back to Afghanistan."

The whisking stops.

"You'd go back?" Jordan whispers. She sounds distressed. I automatically look up.

"Sometimes," I say slowly. "I think that's the only thing that will bring my sight back."

"What about this Kate? What does she think?"

I frown at her
this Kate
reference; it's too reminiscent of Diana's open disdain for dear Kate as well. "Kate's not my psychiatrist any longer."

"Right," Jordan says with an air of disbelief. "She's your
friend
."

"Right."

I don't say more as this peculiar frustration and downright irritation with Jordan surfaces for so many indefinable reasons.

Why is she asking about Kate? What the hell does she care for?

We exist in the waning silence. Only the sizzle of pancake batter on a hot pan invades the space and the two of us.

"It's none of my business," she finally says. Her tone is the model for politeness. "Here are your pancakes. I should really go check on Max."

She places a fork in my hand, guides my other one to the edge of the plate, and then apparently walks off. Disappointment with her abrupt departure is as visceral as the blackness. I feel as if I've been struck.

Disconcerted, I cut through the hotcakes with the fork and take a large bite. Within seconds, I have to admit, these are the best pancakes I've ever tasted. I spend the rest of the time, savoring the ingredients, trying to identify the elusive spice she's used to give them this incredible flavor, and not dwelling on the apparent fact that she's suddenly pissed off at me.

I don't hear her return. There's just this sudden increase in the noise level with the fresh sizzle of pancakes. It's the only indication that she's back and, apparently, making more pancakes because she's certainly not talking, at least, not to me. I decide to indulge her in this endeavor and remain silent.

The chimes from the grandfather clock in the living room sound off four times. I put down my fork, steeple my hands together and just wait for her to speak.