Page 14 of Lover
“These things can take significant time,” Dr. Hannigan said from his high-backed chair the blushing color of spring tulips. “My colleagues recently treated a patient who didn’t remember their own name for nearly a year, then one day woke up knowing exactly who he was as if he’d never forgotten in the first place.”
“Why can’t we sit her down and tell her everything?” Burt asked, echoing the question I’d already asked several times. I looked to Hannigan, eyebrows raised, expectant. I wasn’t the only one who thought that seemed like a reasonable idea.
“We’d be taking a mighty risk,” Hannigan said. “On one hand there’s a chance presenting her all of this information at once would break apart the protective mental barriers and bring her back to us full and unscarred. On the other, there is an equal chance it would disturb her, bringing only half memories to the surface, or perhaps none at all. The last thing we want to do iscreate a cause to readmit her to the hospital. She’s far better off in her familiar space with people who care about her.”
“It’s not worth the gamble,” Lottie agreed with Hannigan. “Millie’s such a tenacious thing, she’ll find her own way around.”
“I know how difficult it must be for you, Callum,” Hannigan said.
“No, you don’t,” I replied, though not with ill will, only weariness.
“Come on, then, have a seat,” Burt encouraged. “I’ll get you a brandy. Lottie’s had a bright idea and we want to run it by you and the doctor.”
A party. An intimate affair with people Millie knew best, people she’d often dined with and enjoyed the company of.
“We’ll re-create the proposal dinner!” Lottie said with a sparkle in her eyes. “Pink and gold, flowers everywhere. We can get plenty from the hot house in Boston. They always overgrow roses, so those for certain, and hellebore! It smells lovely, and since it’s becoming so popular in our fragrances, they planted extra this last season.”
She continued on, sharing her ideas with Burt and Hannigan chiming in here and there. I barely listened, recalling the beautiful night I’d asked Millie to be my wife, when she’d burst into tears and leaped in my arms and I promised I would never be a cause of hurt, and that we would build a shining life.
My eyes burned, and I joined the conversation to distract myself.
“Who else should we invite?” I asked. “If it’s going to be a party, there needs to be more than just ourselves or she won’t understand why she’s included, being only staff.”
“Not too many people,” Hannigan cautioned. “We don’t want to overwhelm her, but Florence is coming in for a visit in a few weeks’ time. To be honest, she rather hoped to see Millicent.”
Florence Hannigan, the doctor’s niece, and the boisterous, kindhearted woman who’d nearly made me jealous of all the time Millie spent with her. They’d become such fast friends she was invited to be maid of honor at the wedding. She’d moved to Chicago shortly after Millie disappeared.
“We should include Jack,” Burt said.
Jack Horace—the third member of our rowdy university trio, a brilliant architect who made his fortune and his name in the new art movement. He’d always been the last to go to bed and the first to rise, living off cigarettes and coffee and glorious ideas. He had an eye for beauty, and an artist’s romantic heart, which ultimately led him to overlook the monstrous flaws of a beautiful woman, making her his wife and his lifelong regret.
My mouth became bitter.
“Oh, Burt, not Jack,” Lottie said. “He would have Margaret trailing right behind him.”
“No, no. Jack’s got that woman set up on a trip to Europe for several months, a nice long stretch of peace awaiting him. I’m sure he’d love to join us, and he and Millie got on so well.”
I grinned. Jack had maintained so many of his boyish ways. His eccentric humor and friendly nature had encouraged Millie to laugh, and they’d acted much like long-lost siblings…until Margaret interfered.
“As long as the viper doesn’t set a scale through the door, I’m happy to have Jack at Willowfield. I’ve missed the fool,” I agreed.
And so the date was set. The details, including a new dress for Millie, were left to Lottie, who was adept at planning events on short notice.
I stayed many hours more, letting the company and the warm hospitality of my friends ease my worry. I decided against telling Hannigan what had happened in the library, in case he changed his mind about the dinner. I needed a forward step, a sure movement toward the end of all of this.
Toward a new beginning.
***
I returned to Willowfield late morning, monitoring the windows in the house as I came up the drive. No one appeared to be looking out to see me arrive. I made it inside undetected, coming upon not a soul, and took myself to the tower where I expected to stay, out of the way, for the next few days.
The room was cold, but I didn’t bother with a fire yet, going straight to the bed and throwing my weary body down upon the coverlet, staring up at the canopy as though the answer to all my troubles were woven somewhere in the gossamer fabric like magic. I wondered with some sardonic amusement what anyone outside of this grim drama would say about what was going on here at Willowfield. They all had a right to stay away. Perhaps, after all, the house was the root of all this sadness. I covered my eyes with my arm and viciously squashed the thought. I was a rational man, and though I had an interest in the psychology of myth, I had no room to actually believe in any of the nonsense.
I roused myself from the bed, deciding it hadn’t been the best idea to come here. I needed to maintain a level head, not be contemplating curses and ghost-plagued halls.
As I stood, I spied out the yellowing grime of the window a person walking the gardens below. I might have assumed it was Rodney, but the man didn’t wear a woman’s cloche. I stepped lightly and pulled the curtain back, only an inch to have a clearer view. Doing this inspired a scornful laugh. What sort of man was I now that I haunted windows to spy on people?
The dirt still distorted her image, but I could tell enough to be sure it was indeed Millie. She’d come out of the rose labyrinth carrying herself in a less hunted manner. The gardens had been her favorite place in the years she’d spent at this house, and more often than not she was outside, studying the flowers andpicking her way through each path until she knew every inch by heart. I wondered if perhaps walking them again had brought her peace.
