Page 165 of Mangled Memory
I feel the blush rise, creeping from just above my breasts to my hairline.
He strokes a finger down my cheek and whispers, “My beautiful Ayla.”
I want to say it’s comforting.
I wish I could call it intimate.
I’d kill to call it sweet.
What it is is eerie. It’s icky and wrong, and I pull away.
His phone buzzes somewhere, breaking the moment; I’d be lying to say I’m not relieved.
I look around the room from surface to surface. Plastic water pitchers and plastic cups rest in the entryway. Flowers are on another. The nightstand next to me is bare and empty.
Where are my things? My cell or the chargers that seem to live everywhere except when the battery is running low. Lip stuff or keys. My purse or even my metal water bottle. The things that I carry with me.
“Do you know where my phone is?” And then a worse thought assails me. “What about my camera equipment? Is it? Shit. I don’t know what I took—hell, I don’t know what I own for that matter. Is it still at the ridge? Did someone grab my stuff? I guess my car’s still there too? How long has it been?”
Panic begins bubbling again and I wish he wouldn’t, but Christian sets a hand atop our joined ones.
“Fitz went when we heard. He knew you’d be devastated to leave without your equipment as meticulous as you are with each piece. Let me ask him.”
“Fitz?”
“Fitzgerald Young works for us. He manages our house and handles things as we need. He needed to busy himself when everything happened and took it upon himself to go.”
“Someone manages our house?” I can’t stop the snort this time.
“You stay busy, Mrs. Barone, and I do too. Fitz helps with that. You know, that’s the second time today you’ve snorted. Actually, it’s the second time since I’ve known you. It’s cute and so unlike the Ayla I know.”
My body tenses.
“Hey, Ayla, look at me.”
I do as he requests but only because I want this conversation over with. He doesn’t look at me with trust or love or lust. It’s not disdain, but it’s definitely not openness either.
“This may be all new to you, but it is to me too. And, baby, I can’t walk on eggshells thinking that anything I say might set you off. I’m Team Ayla, but you’ve got to trust that and not assume the worst of me. You doing that assumes the worst of you too. You chose me. You married me. You’re making a life with me. And you weren’t wrong in making those decisions. And I’m not wrong in holding you to them.”
Nothing saysI’m stucklike that kind of comment.
Fuck my life.
3
hell, high water, or husband
Ayla
The next morning, I go to therapy, which is recommended for all patients with head trauma. The shrink is fine, albeit a bit patronizing. I’m not an idiot, nor has my ability to cogitate been impaired.
Or so they say.
It’s literally like someone erased a portion of my DVD playback and I’m stuck with a chunk of the movie having no audio or video while the clock timer keeps running.
I’m not in a good headspace during the assessments, though, and I know enough to know that my being stressed or anxious can skew test results. That’s with everything. I can’t imagine that mental tests are any different, especially when memory is involved.
I’m agitated because I woke up hurting. Fitful sleep combined with vivid dreams means I don’t feel rested at all. Soreness in my body, screaming pain in my head, and the icing on the fucking cake is I wanted a shower. Yep. That’s what set me off. It’s been six days. Six days since I woke up and left my home and was airlifted off a boulder due to what we can only assume is a fall.
