Elisabeth Naughton: Wait for Me

They had to be in different folders. Something separate, marked “delivery” and “accident”. She closed the drawer, reached for the bottom one. It wouldn’t budge.

She pulled again, only to realize it was locked.

She fumbled through the drawers of his desk, searching for a key. An odd sense of urgency pushed her forward. She tried the few keys she found but none fit the lock. Swallowing the growing lump in her throat, she pawed through his shelves.

Still no key.

The blood rushed to her head, intensifying that dull ache around her scar.

She scrambled up to the bedroom they’d once shared and yanked open his dresser drawers, fumbling through socks and underwear and old T-shirts.

It had to be somewhere. He wouldn’t have locked the drawer and thrown away the key. Her fingers skimmed cotton and finally settled on cold metal.

Pressure settled on her chest as she pulled the key ring from the back of the drawer. Two keys glittered in the low light, one bigger than the other. On wobbly legs, she made her way back down to the office, kneeling on the floor in front of the file cabinet.

Don’t open it. Forget about the key. Forget about the drawer. Forget about that stupid bill. Nothing good can come from this. You’ve already been through enough today .

She swallowed the lump in her throat. Before she could change her mind, she turned the key in the lock. The drawer gave with a pop.

Inside, a long metal box rested on the bottom of the drawer. She set it carefully on the desk, then sat in his chair and rubbed damp palms along her slacks. The second key slid into the lockbox with ease.

Drawing in a deep breath, she opened the lid. Medical forms, evaluations, bills filled the box. She extracted each paper, scanned the dates and contents. All referenced the nursing home in San Francisco. All mentioned dates two to five years in the past.

According to the papers, she’d been in a coma for almost three years, not four days. Reed had been born by C-section when she’d been in that coma.

Her eyes slid shut. It couldn’t be. She’d had a long labor—over twenty-four hours. Jake had held her hand through the pain. She’d been wheeled into surgery when the labor had stopped progressing. Jake had been with her as her son was cut from her. He’d told her all about it. He’d relayed the story of Reed’s birth so many times, she could see it in her mind.

Tears pooled in her eyes. She looked at the papers again as her brain warred with what she’d been told and the facts in front of her.

There were no pictures. No pictures of her pregnancy. None anywhere in the house. Jake had told her it was because she’d hated being pregnant, that she didn’t want to remember what she’d looked like.

But there were none of her smiling in a hospital gown, either. None of her nursing her baby. She’d believed him when he’d said he’d forgotten the camera the day Reed was born.

She ran to the family room, yanked picture albums off the shelves, flipped through each page. Jake holding a newborn Reed. Jake giving him a bath. Jake feeding him his first solids. Oh, God . Jake smiling with him on his first birthday. In every picture, it was Jake. Not a single one of her and Reed until after his second birthday.

Panic washed over her. She’d always assumed she’d been the one taking the photos. She’d never even questioned it. Rubbing a hand over the pain in her chest, she tried to rationalize the moment. Couldn’t.

He was a doctor. He was her husband. She’d believed him. It had never even occurred to her not to. Why? Why would he lie?

No, no, no. This can’t be real .

On legs that threatened to give out, she made her way back into his office. Her eyes focused on an evaluation from a neurosurgeon she didn’t recognize.

Damage to the lateral cortex of the anterior temporal lobe as a result of

severe trauma. Prognosis: memory loss, possibly permanent and irreversible .

Permanent memory loss. Coma. Three years.

Choking back tears, she continued flipping through the forms. Her stomach pitched when she saw Jake’s signature on several of the papers. He’d been an attending physician.

Her attending physician.

No, no, no . Her husband never would have been allowed to oversee her recovery. Never. Not in a million years. She wasn’t a doctor, but she knew the rules.

Sweat beaded on her neck, trickled down her back. There had to be an explanation. Something. Anything!

She lifted each paper out of the box in an urgent need to find the truth. Questions continued to swirl in her mind, memories she wasn’t sure were real or contrived. When she drew out the last paper, the floor moved under her feet.

Her legs buckled, and she dropped into the chair. In the bottom of the box rested a photo. Her breath clogged in her throat. With shaking fingers, she extracted the picture, just as a stabbing pain cut right through her heart.

It was a photo of a young girl, roughly five years of age. She was sitting on a boat. Water sparkled behind her. Trees glinted off in the distance. A young girl with a disturbingly familiar face, a curly mop of brown hair, and the greenest eyes Kate had ever seen.

Kate’s eyes. The same shape, size, color…the same exact eyes Kate stared at everyday in the mirror.

Oh, God. Oh, God .

The air clogged in her lungs. And a place deep inside told her this girl couldn’t possibly be anything other than her daughter.

Ryan Harrison tucked a towel around his waist as he walked through his hotel suite. He picked up the remote on the bed and flipped on the TV, then ran another towel through his dripping hair as he searched for CNN.

The shower still ran in the bathroom, but it didn’t drown out the heavily accented lyrics to “Come What May” from Moulin Rouge . She always sang when she was satisfied. He, on the other hand, didn’t feel like singing. What he really wanted was coffee. He thought about calling room service, but the commotion on the television caught his attention before he could find the phone.

Lights flashed on the screen, people scrambled, sirens shrieked. A reporter relayed the news from yesterday as Ryan sat on the end of the bed and watched the coverage of the plane crash in San Francisco.

His heart beat hard. His palms grew sweaty where they gripped the towel. It was like watching Annie’s plane crash all over again. His stomach clenched at the memory, a sharp stabbing pain that cut right to the center of him.

His cell phone rang, startling him back to the present. Pushing to his feet, he ran a shaky hand over his face and pulled the screaming phone out of the slacks he’d tossed across the back of a chair only hours ago.

“Harrison.”

“You rat bastard.” Mitch Mathews’s deep voice boomed through the line, concern more than evident in his brother-in-law’s words. “Scared about ten years off my life. I’ve been calling you for hours. You see the news?”

Ryan couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the screen. “Yeah, just saw it.”

“Where are you?”

He glanced around the room. “New York.”

“Thank God. I thought you were flying out of San Francisco yesterday.”

“I was supposed to. Hannah rescheduled a meeting in LA. I flew there yesterday, then here after.” He caught the airline and flight number when the reporter said it again and swallowed the lump in his throat. “Jesus, that was my flight.”

“Son of a bitch,” Mitch muttered. “You gonna be okay?”

“What?” Ryan was having trouble thinking. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“When are you coming back?”

“Tonight, I think.” Ryan rubbed a hand over his forehead. “Julia’s gonna be pretty upset by this. Go by and see her, would ya? Your folks are at the house with her.”