Everything We Keep: A Novel (22 page)

I walked in a tight circle. He watched me cautiously. “Do you want some water? I’ll get you a glass.”

“No. No water.” I reluctantly eyed his laptop. The sane part of me understood I should do as he suggested. Get a grip, read, then ask questions.

“All right, then. Well . . .” He ran blunt fingers roughly over his scalp. His sun-bronzed hair stood on end. “Come find me when you’re ready. I’ll walk with you to Imelda’s office.”

I watched Ian disappear into the lobby and had to stop myself from running after him. I had a sudden urge to drown in the compassion he freely offered, seeking refuge from the insanity of James’s situation. I also wanted to storm after Imelda and demand she tell me what the hell she’d done to James.

But that wouldn’t get me anywhere, as my actions this morning had proved. As Ian had requested, I wouldn’t do anything rash. I’d already run off to Mexico before doing any research, which was exactly what I needed to do right now. I needed to understand everything before talking with Imelda and confronting Thomas. I especially wanted to be prepared before I approached Carlos, otherwise he would send me away again.

I sat in the chair and awakened Ian’s laptop. My brows shot skyward. He had more browser windows open than I could count, stacked on top of one another like pancakes.

From what Ian had described, James’s memory loss wasn’t the result of a physical trauma. It was psychological, something so intolerable he couldn’t cope. His mind had removed him from the situation by erasing everything. Then, like an empty hard drive, he took on new data in the form of a new identity.

Carlos.

Or to be more precise, Jaime Carlos Dominguez.

Someone had to have created the life for him. His initials weren’t a coincidence. I thought of Imelda and what she could have told James while he’d been lost and confused, and his mind so empty he’d absorbed any information given. I thought of Thomas. Why would he do something so vile as staging his brother’s death?

What happened to you, James?

I scanned the articles, digesting as fast as my eyes could feast on the words. I clicked links, opening more pages while saving others as favorites. I would have Ian e-mail the web addresses and read everything again later.

I also read what Ian had explained about fugue state, how James would have complete amnesia during the fugue period, forgetting all he knew as Carlos when his memories returned.

If they returned.

I read how some patients, going through years of fugue state, continuously worked to retrieve their original identities. They were aware they suffered from fugue. James wasn’t.

Or he hadn’t been until I showed up.

His real identity hadn’t been disclosed to him. I surmised he was told he was a Mexican citizen, had a life in Puerto Escondido, and he’d been severely injured.

Like a surfing accident.

Why deceive him? And how did he end up hundreds of miles from where he should have been? His travel records confirmed his overnight stay in Playa del Carmen, just south of Cancún.

They had to have been falsified, that way his family and friends believed James died on a business trip, far from where he still lived. No one would find him.

A pop-up window opened, warning 10 percent battery life was left. Moments later, the screen went black. I slammed the laptop closed and went to the hotel lobby. Ian must still be with Imelda. I didn’t see him. The front desk clerk gave me a map of the resort, circling the wing housing the management offices.

At the end of a corridor off the main lobby, I found him. He stood beside Imelda, who wept. Ian’s lips moved, but I couldn’t ascertain the words, not over Imelda’s gut-wrenching sobs. Carlos stood off to the side, alone. Head bent and arm propped against the wall, he looked as though he tried to balance himself in a world that had been turned upside down.

I rushed over to him. His head snapped up and I stopped, unable to move past the rage rolling off him. It punched me in the gut. “James?”

“That’s not my name,” he snarled. He straightened and pushed by, knocking my shoulder.

I chased after him. “I’m sorry! Carlos, listen to me—”

Fingers grabbed my elbow, yanking me back. “Aimee, don’t—”

I whirled and jerked my arm. “What’re you doing, Ian? Let go of me!”

“Not now.” He grabbed my other elbow. “Now’s not a good time.” He nodded toward Imelda hunched against the wall. “She told Carlos everything.”

“Everything?” What the hell was
everything
? I glared at Imelda. “Tell me what you did to him.” I tugged against Ian’s grip. “Dammit, Ian. Back off.” I stood on a precipice, ready to leap and wring her neck. My fingers clawed at the air. In the back of my mind, I understood I was losing grip on my sanity. James, Imelda, Thomas, Lacy . . . James’s missing paintings, staged death . . . sleeping with Ian, opening my heart to him . . . it was all too much.

Ian held on, his blunt nails digging into the soft tissue under my arms. I screamed my frustration.

Imelda recoiled, facing the wall.

“Calm down,” Ian yelled. He shushed, trying to pacify me.

“Fuck off! I didn’t come all this way to sit back and wait for everyone to calm down,” I shouted. “We are way past the point of being civil. She’s had more than enough time to tell James, like nineteen fucking months! I want to know what the hell is going on.” I yanked my arms, twisting. Ian started to drag me down the hallway, away from Imelda. “God dammit, Ian. Let! Go!”

“She’s right.”

Ian and I stopped struggling. In unison, we gawked at Imelda. His grip loosened and I slipped free, running hands over the reddened skin to assuage the sting.

Imelda eased away from the wall. “I should have told him months ago. I’ve hurt him; he’s in horrible pain. He hates me.” She glanced at Ian. His hand rested on my shoulder, ready to stall me. I still felt the itch to lunge for Imelda. She nodded at him. “It’s all right. She needs to know. And . . .” Her eyes darted from Ian to me. “I’ve been expecting your arrival.”

“What?” Ian and I said in unison.

Ian dropped his hand and I moved away. Imelda fixed sad eyes on me. “Come with me.”

She brushed past, and I gave Ian his laptop, smacking the computer against his chest. Payback for the fingerprints he’d left on my arms. “The battery’s dead,” I grumbled, trailing after Imelda.

“Aimee,” he said with quiet ferocity. I stopped but didn’t turn. “I’ll be at the beach café if you need me.” I gave him an abbreviated nod without looking at him and walked away.

CHAPTER 25

Imelda led me to the beach. I followed through the mass of spectators, doing my best not to lose sight of her. Once past the surf competition area, I closed the distance, walking by her side. We continued along Playa Zicatela and I wondered if she planned to trek the entire way to La Punta, a rocky point at the other end of the beach, when she suddenly stopped and faced the ocean.

“This is where I found him.”

I followed her gaze, beyond the surging waves. “Out there?”

“No. Here.” She pointed to the sand by her feet, her exotic accent thick with emotion. “I came across him during my evening walk. He was drenched and wandering the beach. Dazed and disoriented, exhausted.” She looked at me with an anguished expression. “There were cuts and scrapes over his entire body. His face was swollen and bloody like he had been in a fight. I do not think that is what happened.”

“He hadn’t been surfing, had he?”

She shook her head. “Zicatela’s waves can break boards and backs. They are very powerful. You have to respect the ocean here.” She pointed toward La Punta. “I believe the current pushed him against those rocks from wherever he swam.”

A chill raced across my skin. In my mind’s eye, I saw James tossed in the waves, repeatedly thrown against the rocks while he struggled to shore. Then I remembered the weird visions I’d had before passing out in the women’s restroom, right after I’d seen Lacy. Had they been real?

“What happened to him?” I asked.

“No sé.”
Imelda’s lips curved downward. “I do not know.”

She glanced back at the resort. “The hotel’s property had been in my late husband’s family for many generations. He inherited the land after we married and started plans for the hotel. The resort was his dream, and became mine, too. We spent three years obtaining loans and building our savings for this hotel. It was so beautiful.
Magnífico.
” Her lips expanded into a shaky smile, then her eyes turned sad. “My husband had a heart attack six months after we opened. He died in my arms. I inherited everything—a hotel I did not know how to operate on my own and creditors breathing down my neck.”

She folded her arms and rubbed her elbows. “Four months after he died, I had to make a decision: sell the hotel or walk. So I came here to think. I was ready to give up hope on our dreams. The hotel was all I had left of my late husband. That is when I came across Carlos.”

“What did he say when you found him?”

“He did not know his name, where he was from, or how he arrived on the beach. Many months ago, he told me his first memory was seeing me.

“I took him to our clinic. His nose and cheek were broken. He needed extensive facial surgery. Our doctors did not have the skills. They did not know what to do with him. He had no memories.”

“But he’d been reported missing,” I said. “Someone would have figured out who he was.”

Her eyes skirted downward. She circled fingers around her elbows with nervous energy. “He’d been reported missing off the coast of Cozumel so no one would connect the man in our clinic to the one who had gone missing nearly a thousand miles away. By the time he was reported missing, the clinic and I had already been paid off to keep silent.”

“Who paid you off?” I asked despite having suspicions.

She moistened her lips. “Within hours after I admitted Carlos, an American arrived. He said he was a friend of Carlos, but I believed him a relation. They had the same eyes.”

I started shaking even though I wasn’t surprised. “Thomas.”

“He made me an offer I could not refuse.”

I crumpled onto the sand. Like Imelda, Thomas had paid me off so I’d go my merry way through life. “Cash the check,” he’d told me on more than one occasion. “Open a restaurant,” he’d urged. And I had. It kept me distracted from the truth he hid.

Imelda sat beside me. “This must be very painful for you. You were to be married,
sí
?”

“His funeral was on our wedding day.”

“Ah,
lo siento
,” she murmured. Her tone hinted of an apology.

I only stared at the sand.

“In the beginning, Thomas asked me to watch over Carlos,” she continued. “I was to keep him safe and report anything suspicious.”

I lifted my head. “Like what? He was on a business trip.”

“His life was in danger. Someone had tried to kill him.”

My heart beat furiously. Lacy had mentioned something about danger in her note, but the idea seemed preposterous. James had led such a normal life. “Who was after him?”

“I do not know. Part of my deal with Thomas was not to ask questions.”

“Why would you accept such a deal from a stranger?” Her lips quivered and I gasped. “He paid off the hotel, didn’t he? Was it worth it? My fiancé’s life for your debt-free one?”

“I gave him a new one,” she defended. “A better one.”

“Is that what Thomas told you? Too bad you can’t ask James what he thinks. He had a good life!” I shouted. “It was beautiful.”

“Here, he is free. He does not have to keep secrets.”

“What secrets? He had no secrets.”

She gave me a flat look. “Are you absolutely certain?”

I looked across the ocean, my mind as chaotic as the fierce waves. Seeds of doubt sprouted in the pit of my stomach and grew thorny vines, twisting around my bones. No, I wasn’t sure. Not anymore. If it was difficult for James to talk about Phil and the night of our engagement, then there had to be other things he didn’t share.

“My friend Ian believes James has dissociative fugue,” I said.

She raised her brows, impressed. “He is right. The doctors believe the memory loss is psychological. Thomas wanted to make sure Carlos did not remember anything about his previous life so we fabricated a new one. He brought in specialists. They reconstructed Carlos’s face. Nobody would recognize him. Everyone was given a nice settlement to keep quiet. Money speaks louder than words here, especially American dollars.

“While I cared for Carlos at my home, Thomas built his life. He had his paperwork created, birth certificates, identification . . .” She gave me a quick look. “Carlos’s old paintings from his life in America. Thomas made it appear Carlos had recently arrived in town to open his art gallery. He was my long-lost adopted brother. In the eyes of the world, Carlos was a Mexican citizen.

“Thomas believed the more substantial a life we created for Carlos, the less chance his memories returned.
Sí,
there were holes in our story, but since Carlos had only recently found me, his adopted sister, I did not have to answer his questions because I could not. We had only started getting to know each other again before his surfing accident.” She spat the last two words as though detesting the lies she’d told.

I tried to wrap my head around the web of deceit. I couldn’t imagine pretending to be someone I wasn’t. “How could you lie for so long?”

She pressed her lips thin. “It was very hard in the beginning. I always thought Carlos would see right through me, but the checks from Thomas kept coming.” She stole another glance at me before staring at the sand under her toes. “They still come.”

I rubbed my face. Oh my God. Thomas was still paying her.

“Did you ever try telling James the truth?”

She blushed and looked at her hands. I recognized the look.

“You fell in love with him!”

“Only as a sister does a brother! Please understand I had no one,” she defended, pleading with open palms. “My husband died. My parents had died the year before, and I lost my adopted brother when he was a child. I was alone and finally had someone. That is why I gave him my brother’s name. Carlos Dominguez. Carlos means ‘free man.’ I thought the name suited him. Thomas insisted the first name start with
J
because of the paintings. Jaime was my father’s name.”

“Why would Thomas want to hide James from his past? Why do all this?” Thomas had a lot of explaining to do. If I didn’t murder him first.

“Do not be angry with him. He was only protecting his brother.” Imelda stood, turning her back to the ocean. A gust of wind blew hair in her face. Strands lashed her bronze skin. She brushed them away, coiling the hair around her palm. “Take care of Carlos. He is very angry with me. He needs someone. I told him who you are, and that you are as much a victim as him.”

I pictured the last time I’d seen him, how he looked at me in the corridor when I’d called him James. “I don’t think he wants to see me either.”

“Give him time. You are welcome to stay at the hotel for as long as you need at no expense. It is the least I can do to atone for my sins.”

“You said you’d been expecting me,” I reminded when she started walking away.

She stopped and faced me. “I am a Christian woman and I have greatly sinned. I fear for my soul, but I fear what Thomas will do more. He owns the note on my hotel and I do not want him to take it away from me, but I felt guilty deceiving Carlos so I asked Lucy to find someone Carlos once knew.”

“Lucy?” I asked, frowning. Then I remembered. Lacy.

“I had hoped she could convince a friend or family member Carlos was alive and not trace it back to me. I did not want Thomas to find out.” Her shoulders rounded and she angled her body away from me.

“Who is Lacy . . . I mean, Lucy?”

Her eyes brightened. She rested a flat hand across her breasts. “She is a frequent guest at Casa del sol who seems to visit when I need her most, sometimes before I am aware I could use her wisdom. She is my friend.”

When she didn’t say anything further, I blurted the questions stockpiling in my head. “Where is she from? How do I find her?” Ian would want to know. I wanted to know.

“She is . . . how do you say in English? An enigma?
Sí
, she is that.” Imelda started walking backward toward La Punta. A watery smile curved on her espresso face, the kind that appears when you have a lifetime’s worth of confessions and no hope to correct your misdeeds. “Lucy is a mysterious creature, is she not?” She turned and left me alone on the beach.

The return trip to the hotel seemed longer than the walk out. My feet dragged through the sand. I saw Ian watching me from his table on the deck, his expression pained. My heart twisted. Part of me wanted to go to him and leave behind the mess Thomas had created. But I couldn’t leave James, not after what I’d learned. I averted my gaze, passing the café.

When I entered my room, the phone was ringing. I skirted around the bed and fumbled for the receiver on the nightstand. “Hello?”

“Finally! I’ve been calling all afternoon.”

“Kristen?”

She snorted. “Who else would it be? Why haven’t you answered your phone?”

I grabbed my cell. Four missed calls. “Sorry. I muted my phone.”

Kristen laughed. “Painting went that well? Tell me, is Carlos—”

“James?” I finished for her. “Yes, he is. Thomas is responsible.”

She drew in a sharp breath and swore. I tucked the phone on my shoulder and rubbed my arms. My flesh was goosepimply. I thought of the times Thomas had called, or ordered coffee at the café. How he’d asked about my day. Perfect, normal conversation, when all the while he’d been lying to everyone, including James. Bile knotted in my stomach.

“I’m speechless,” Kristen said. “No wonder Thomas was being nosey.”

“Imelda said—”

“Who’s Imelda?” She made an impatient noise. “Start at the beginning. Tell me everything.”

So I did.

“How does Ian feel about this?” she asked when I finished.

I chewed my thumbnail.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“I slept with him.”

“Who?” She gasped. “Ian?” When I didn’t reply fast enough for her, she laughed, low and wicked. “You’re fucked.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” I said, working another nail.

“He’s a great guy. He cares about you, and I’m willing to bet he loves you.”

“He does,” I admitted.

“He told you?” she asked, shocked. “Don’t hurt him.”

“Too late for that.”

She made a sound of disappointment. “Do you want my advice?”

“Doesn’t matter. You’ll give it to me anyway.”

“Seriously, Aimee, listen to me,” she implored. “I know you’ve had your heart set on finding James, but Ian may be right. James’s identity may never come back. You need to prepare for the worst.”

“Am I supposed to give up on him? I just found him. I have to help him remember.”

“Your flight leaves in two days. How do you expect to help him in forty-eight hours?” I chewed my lower lip and she swore at my silence. “You don’t plan to stay there, do you? What about your café? Your family? Me!” she exclaimed. “We’re all here.”

“James is here.” I tugged my hair, twisting the locks around my fingers. Now that I knew he’d been the victim of an elaborate scheme I couldn’t leave him behind. I had to help. “Imelda has offered me a room for as long as I need.”

“Aimee . . . ,” Kristen pleaded. “Is this really what you want to do?”

“If you thought Nick had died only to learn he was alive and didn’t remember a single minute of your life together, could you walk away from him?”

“Probably not,” she said after a moment. “No, I couldn’t.”

“Do you see why I have to stay and try to help him?”

“I think I understand why you want to, but you can’t force Carlos to be someone he’s not. Don’t do to him what James’s parents had done his entire life. You and James belonged together, but you and Carlos are a whole different story. Figure out what you want before you approach him,” she advised. “He may not give up his life in Mexico. So, while you’re trying to convince him he’s better off in California, you risk losing a man who loves you.”

I was slowly accepting I had already lost Ian. I ached for him and James. But James needed me more.

I said good-bye to Kristen and hung up the phone. A knock sounded and I tensed. Ian. He wanted to talk, and it wasn’t fair of me to avoid him any longer.

I went to answer the door, glancing through the peephole, and abruptly released the knob as though it singed my skin. Ian wasn’t on the other side. It was Carlos.