Lois Richer - A Time to Remember

Her eyes were open now. She was staring at him as if he were a specimen she was trying to define. Her blue eyes had darkened until they were almost navy. With fear? Of him?

“What do you want from me?” she asked huskily.

“What do I want? I want answers.” She was frail, she was hurt. But the need to know could not be stifled. “Where did you go, Marissa? What have you been doing? Why didn’t you contact me?”

“Good questions.”

“Well?”

She turned her head to the wall, stared at the blinds that someone had turned open to the morning sun. Gray waited, anger building inside. What was going on with her? Why was she acting like this?

“Aren’t you even going to answer me?” he sputtered, clenching his hands at his sides.

“Certainly. In due time. But I have a question, too.” She pleated the sheet with her left hand. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind answering that first?”

“I guess.” He shrugged, pretending nonchalance when he knew she was going to ask about that day. “What is your question?”

“Would you mind telling me exactly who you are?”

His eyes flashed like lightning, changing from a soft dove-gray to hardened steel.

“I’m your husband.”

She stared at him while her mind desperately tried to process the information. Husband? She had a husband? Wouldn’t a woman remember if she had a husband?

“Gray,” he prompted, frowning at her. “Gray McGonigle.”

“And I’m Marissa McGonigle. I see.” She couldn’t blame him for his belligerent tone. It seemed perfectly understandable now. “I was your wife. I was married to you.”

“Are married to me,” he corrected, his tone belligerent. “Unless something’s happened that I don’t know about. Do you remember?”

She hated to destroy that sad-eyed look of puppy-dog hope in his eyes, but she couldn’t pretend. Not about this.

“I’m sorry. I don’t remember anything.” Marissa. She turned the name over in her mind. She liked it. It sounded different, special. As if someone had taken the time to choose a name specifically for her. “My parents?” she asked, suddenly wondering why only he was here.

“Both dead. Your father died when you were little. Your mother died two years ago. Breast cancer.”

“Oh.” She felt flat, deflated, as if she’d unconsciously expected—what? Someone to be there? She chided herself for her silliness. Who else did she want? Wasn’t an unknown husband enough?

“What do you remember, Marissa?” He squinted at her as if he thought she was playing some childish game.

She attributed the angry frustration in his voice to worry. He must be worried. A husband would be worried if his own wife didn’t recognize him. Wouldn’t he?

But this man didn’t look frazzled or afraid. Or worried. He looked…defeated, she decided after a moment’s contemplation. As if he’d tried very hard and just couldn’t manage to make sense of his world.

She scoured her brain for something, some ray of hope she could offer. To her shock, nothing emerged. She looked at the gold band on his ring finger, then at the matching circlet guarded by a blazing diamond on her own left hand, and suddenly realized that she didn’t know how it got there.

“Nothing,” she whispered. “I remember nothing.” She stared at him. Blank. Her heart picked up speed as she peered around the room, stared out the window, squinted at the picture he’d laid on top of her blanket. “What’s this?”

“A picture. Cody made.”

“That’s nice.” Whoever Cody was. “Will you thank him for me?” She stared at the childish scribbles, smiled at the ghostly figure fluttering among the trees. “Is it almost Halloween?”

“No. That’s about seven weeks away.” His dark brows joined to hood his eyes. “Why?”

She shrugged. “It looks like a Halloween picture, that’s all. I’ll bet he’s a cute kid.”

“Yes.” The man named Gray nodded. “Our son is a wonderful boy. But he’s got some problems, I’m afraid.”

Whatever else he said slid past in a whirl of confusion. She got stuck on those words our son.

“Cody is my child?” she gasped.

“Well, he’s both of ours,” he agreed, one corner of his mouth tilting up in a half smile. “You used to say he got all my genes, but I’m pretty sure his stubbornness came from you.”

“A child.” She laid a hand against her abdomen as if that might somehow reawaken slumbering memories of pregnancy, labor, delivery. “How old is he?”

“Five. Almost six.” He sighed, slumped against the wall and raked a hand through his hair. “I’m guessing you don’t remember him, either.”

Marissa shook her head, then stopped the action immediately as pain threatened to swamp her tired aching body.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, tears welling for all the precious memories she couldn’t share with him. And she wanted to. Something about this man drew her soul, called to her. Surely somewhere in her brain she knew him?

Yet her brain drew a blank.

“It’s not your fault.”

But he sounded as if he thought it was.

“I suppose I should be grateful that my existence isn’t the only thing you’ve managed to wipe from your mind.”

Oh, the pain underlying those words. She could feel the despair gripping him, dragging him down. He’d obviously been up all night. A five-o’clock shadow gave him an edgy flair that only enhanced his harsh features. His cheekbones were definitely a legacy from his distant Cherokee heritage, but those lean, taut muscles and that burnished tan came from hard physical labor.

Marissa froze, tried to figure out how she’d come to that conclusion. But the mist that carried the insight had dissipated and she couldn’t bring it back.

“Good morning, Marissa.” A doctor who clearly knew her strode into the room, saw Gray and grinned. “You didn’t waste any time getting here.”

“No.”

She sensed there was something else the man—her husband—wanted to say. But he clamped his lips together and thrust his hands into the pockets of his worn blue jeans.

The doctor was puzzled. He glanced from her to him, then shrugged.

“How are you feeling, Marissa?”

“She’s got a headache. And she doesn’t remember anything.”

Marissa glared at Gray. Did he have to say it like that, tacked on at the end as if she’d deliberately done it to spite him? Why did he always…what? The memory eluded her.

“I can speak for myself,” she muttered, fighting to retain her composure.

Again that careless shrug, the slumping pose, the thrust of that granite chin. “So do it.”

“Thank you. I will. If you’ll let me.” She wanted it clear up front that she wasn’t going to turn into some kind of shrinking violet, no matter what she’d been like before.

The doctor ignored their verbal battle, eyes concerned as he swung his flashlight across her pupils, took her pulse, checked her reactions.

“What specifically don’t you remember?” he asked gently, frowning at her tear-filled eyes. “Do you remember me? Luc Lawrence? I moved here just after Dr. Darling had his accident. Joshua Darling.”

He could have been speaking Hindi for all she understood. Marissa frowned, waited for something. Nothing. No flash of comprehension, no lightning stroke of memory. Nothing.

“I’m married to Dani. You and Gray live next door to her ranch. Gray’s renting the land.”

“Oh.” She leaned back against the pillow and wished it would all go away. It hurt too much to think. “How did I get here?” she asked a moment later.

“We were hoping you could tell us.” Gray pushed away from the wall, his attention riveted on her, his eyes searching for—what? “You and Cody disappeared over five months ago. No one’s been able to find out where you went or what you’ve been doing. Then last night Cody showed up in the church parking lot. He was bruised, a little roughed up. But he’s fine.” He stopped, watched her. “Except that he won’t talk.”