Sandra Marton - The Second Mrs Adams

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. We watched right to the end, and then I phoned around until I found an all-night place to order pizza and you popped a bottle of wine into the freezer to chill and then...” And then I told you that I loved you and asked you to be my wife.

“And then?”

David shrugged. “And then, we decided we’d give Mel Brooks’ movies another chance.” He cleared his throat. “It’s got to be a good sign, that you remembered a movie.”

She nodded. “A snippet of a movie, at least.”

“Anyway, there’s nothing to worry about.” He reached out and patted her hand. “Believe me, you’re not going to find anything like that waiting for you at Bright Meadows.”

She didn’t.

There was no nurse with a mustache and too many teeth waiting at the top of the steps. There were no dreary corridors or spaced-out patients wandering the grounds.

Instead, there was an air of almost manic cheer about the place. The receptionist smiled, the admitting nurse bubbled, the attendant who led them to a private, sun-drenched room beamed with goodwill.

“I just know you’re going to enjoy your stay with us, Mrs. Adams,” the girl said.

She sounds as if she’s welcoming me to a hotel, Joanna thought. But this isn’t a hotel, it’s a hospital, even if nobody calls it that, and I’m not sick. I just can’t remember anything...

No. She couldn’t think about that or the terror of it would rise up and she’d scream.

And she couldn’t do that. She’d kept the fear under control until now, she hadn’t let anyone see the panic that woke her in the night, heart pounding and pillow soaked with sweat.

Joanna turned toward the window and forced herself to take a deep, deep breath.

“Joanna?” David looked at the straight, proud back. A few strands of dark hair had come loose; they hung down against his wife’s neck. He knew Joanna would fix it if she knew, that she’d never tolerate such imperfection. Despite the straightness of her spine, the severity of her suit, the tumble of curls lent her a vulnerability. He thought of how she’d once been...of how she’d once seemed.

All right, he knew that what she’d seemed had been a lie, that she wasn’t the sweet, loving wife he’d wanted, but even so, she was in a tough spot now. It couldn’t be easy, losing your memory.

He crossed the room silently, put his hands on her shoulders. He felt her jump beneath his touch and when he turned her gently toward him and she looked up at him, he even thought he saw her mouth tremble.

“Joanna,” he said, his voice softening, “look, if you don’t like this place, I’m sure there are others that—”

“This is fine,” she said briskly.

He blinked, looked at her again, and knew he’d let his imagination work overtime. Her lips were curved in a cool smile and her eyes were clear.

David’s hands fell to his sides. Whatever he’d thought he’d seen in her a moment ago had been just another example of how easily he could still be taken in, if not by his wife then by his own imagination.

“I’m sure I’m going to like it here,” she said. “Now, if you don’t mind terribly, I really would like to take a nap.”

“Of course. I’d forgotten what an exhausting day this must have been for you.” He started for the door. Halfway there, he paused and swung toward her. “I, uh, I’m not quite certain when I’ll be able to get to see you again.”

“Don’t worry about it, David. This is a long way to come after a day’s work and besides, I’m sure I’ll be so busy I won’t have time for visitors.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

Joanna smiled. “Safe trip home,” she said.

She held the smile until the door snicked shut after him. Then it dropped from her lips and she buried her face in her hands and wept.

Until today, she’d thought nothing could be as awful as waking up and remembering nothing about your life.

Now, she knew that it was even more horrible to realize that you were part of a loveless marriage.

“Mr. Adams?”

David looked up. He’d had his nose buried in a pile of reports he’d dredged out of the briefcase he always kept near at hand until the voice of his chauffeur intruded over the intercom.

“What is it, Hollister?”

“Sorry to bother you, sir, but I just caught a report on the radio about an overturned tractor trailer near the tunnel approach to the city.”

David sighed and ran his hand through his hair. It wasn’t any bother at all. The truth was, he didn’t have the foggiest idea what was in the papers spread out on the seat beside him. He’d tried his damnedest to concentrate but that split instant when he’d seen those wispy curls lying against Joanna’s pale skin kept intruding.

“Did they say anything about the traffic?”

“It’s tied up for miles. Would you want me to take the long way? We could detour to the Palisades Parkway and take the bridge.”

“Yes, that’s a good idea, Hollister. Take the next turnoff and...” David frowned, then leaned forward. “No, the hell with that. Just pull over.”

“Sir?”

“I said, pull over. Up ahead, where the shoulder of the road widens.”

“Is there a problem, Mr. Adams?”

A taut smile twisted across David’s mouth.

“No,” he said, as the big car glided to a stop. “I just want to change seats with you.”

“Sir?” Hollister said again. There was a world of meaning in the single word.

David laughed and jerked open the car door.

“I feel like driving, Hollister. You can stay up front, if you like. Just slide across the seat and put your belt on because I’m in the mood to see if this car can do anything besides look good.”

For the first time in memory, Hollister smiled.

“She can do a lot besides look good, sir. She’s not your Jaguar by a long shot but if you put your foot right to the floor, I think she’ll surprise you.”

David grinned. He waited until his chauffeur had fastened his seat belt and then he did as the man had suggested, put the car in gear and the pedal to the metal, and forgot everything but the road.

He called Joanna every evening, promptly at seven. Their conversations were always the same.

How was she? he asked.

Fine, she answered.

And how was she getting along at Bright Meadows?

She said “fine” to that one, too.

Friday evening, when he phoned, he told her he had some work to do Saturday but he’d see her on Sunday.

Only if he could fit it into his schedule, she said.

His teeth ground together at the polite distance in the words. Evidently, she didn’t need to remember the past to know how she wanted to behave in the present.

“I’ll be there,” he said grimly, and hung up the phone.

Sunday morning, he went for his usual run. He showered, put on a pair of time-worn jeans, a pair of sneakers and—in deference to the warming Spring weather—a lightweight blue sweatshirt. Then he got behind the wheel of the Jaguar and drove upstate.

Halfway there, he realized that he was out of uniform. Joanna didn’t care for the casual look. She didn’t care for this car, either. She had, a long time ago. At least, she’d pretended she had.

The hell with it. It was too late to worry about and besides, it was one thing to pretend they hadn’t been about to get divorced and quite another to redo his life. He’d done that for damned near four years and that had been three years and a handful of months too many.

The grounds of the rehab center were crowded with patients and visitors, but he spotted Joanna as soon as he drove through the gates. She was sitting on a stone bench beside a dogwood tree that was just coming into flower, the creamy blossoms a counterpoint to her dark hair. She was reading a book and oblivious to anything around her, which was typical of her. It was how she’d dealt with him during so much of the time they’d been married, as if she were living on a separate planet.