If She Only Knew (27 page)
Authors: Lisa Jackson
“What I want,” she said slowly, “is to get my life back. Whatever that is.” She looked out the side window, watched raindrops fork down the glass. “Just now I finally remembered the accident, how I was driving, talking, laughing, I think, and then I rounded a corner and there was the truck coming down the hill in the opposite direction, but that wasn't it, there was something more. A man, I think. In the road. And he . . . and he was suddenly as bright as day.” She rubbed her arms, chilled to her bones. “And then the truck swerved and I hit the guardrail and then . . . and then . . .” She squeezed her eyes shut again, the memory horrifying.
“Jesus, Marla, you don't have to be so damned strong. It's all right to fall apart.” He held her tight again and breathed into her hair.
“No, I can't.”
“Let it go.”
Her throat closed and she stopped struggling, just sagged against him.
“Now. Tell me.”
“I lost control. Pam died.” Marla swallowed hard, knew she'd forever hear those horrid, tortured cries of agony as Pam gave up her life. “I . . . I shouldn't be doing this,” she said, but didn't try to pull away.
“Just relax.”
She laughed without any mirth. “Is that possible?”
“Probably not. But try.”
He guided her forehead to the crook of his neck and his skin was warm against hers. For once she gave up the fight. Closing her eyes, she heard the strong, steady beat of his heart and she melted against him. His thumbs rubbed her arms and she thought of kissing his lips, of touching him where she was forbidden, of lying naked with him . . . oh, God, she couldn't think such wanton, dark thoughts as the minutes clicked by. A car drove past slowly and disappeared at the far end of the narrow street. From out of the shadows a cat pounced on the hood of the truck, then disappeared into the night.
“Now,” he said, his breath ruffling her hair. “Just calm down. Take it slow. Think.” Then as if realizing what he was doing, he slowly released her. “Try to remember, but don't push too hard.”
She nodded, feeling suddenly alone as she leaned back in the seat and willed her skyrocketing pulse to slow. “It's coming back. Oh, God, Nick, it's all coming back.”
“You remember Pam?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “But not as a close friend, no . . . she was more of an acquaintance and we were driving south to . . . to . . .”
“See her daughter?” Nick prompted, “at the university?”
“Maybe, I don't know.” She thought hard. “There was a reason but . . .” She felt a chill as cold as death run through her blood. “. . . I think it had to do with the baby.”
“James.”
“Yes.”
“But he wasn't with you.”
“No . . . maybe we were just discussing him, but . . .” Deep in her heart, she sensed there was more to it, but couldn't quite put the pieces together. “I don't know,” she admitted.
“It'll come.” He looked at his watch. “We'd better get going.” He glanced in her direction as he reversed from the curb, then jammed the truck into first. “Are you gonna be all right?”
“I don't know,” Marla admitted and laughed without mirth. “I don't even know what âall right' is.”
“Maybe none of us do.” He melded his truck into the stream of traffic moving toward the waterfront.
“Maybe not.” Squaring her shoulders, Marla hazarded one last glance at his strong profile. His gaze was fastened on the street, his hands on the wheel and she felt ashamed because she sensed that she was closer to him at this very moment than she'd ever been with her husband. She ran a hand over her forehead in frustration. “I don't think I've said âthanks' yet.” He slid one eye in her direction. “You saved my life, you know. Back at the house. I could have died.”
“I did what I had to do.”
“Well, I owe you one. Probably more than one.”
“I don't keep score.”
“Maybe you should.”
“It wouldn't do a helluva lot of good,” he said and turned into a parking structure attached to Bayside Hospital and the surrounding clinics by means of a sky bridge. Alex's Jaguar was idling next to a Cadillac on the first floor of the lot.
Spying the pickup, Alex shot out of the Jag and was at the truck's passenger door in three swift strides.
“Are you all right?” he asked Marla, his face contorted in concern as she stepped out of the cab. He looked through the open door to Nick, still seated at the wheel. “What the hell happened?”
“Marla can fill you in.”
“You're leaving?” Alex asked, draping an arm familiarly over his wife's shoulders and giving her a little squeeze.
Nick's lips compressed. “Yep. I figure you can handle it from here.” His gaze found Marla's again and her pulse jumped as she remembered how close she'd come to kissing him.
“I'll catch you later, then,” Nick said and Marla looked after him, feeling that she was being abandoned. But that was silly. Stupid. Irrational. Alex was her husband. Just because Nick saved her life didn't mean anything special. He would have done it for anyone. And the scene in the truck, that was all because of the rush and jumble of the trauma of the evening. Nothing more. Right?
Nick's gaze centered on Marla. Midnight blue eyes held hers for a heartbeat, then he turned toward his brother. “I figure you're right, Alex. Since I'm down here anyway, I may as well move back to the house.”
“What changed your mind?” Alex asked as Marla thought about living under the same roof as her renegade brother-in-law.
Nick flashed his thousand-watt grin and lied through his damnably straight teeth. “I just figure it's time.”
Chapter Eleven
“Here, this will help with the pain,” Dr. Robertson said as he gave Marla an injection, then disposed of the needle. He was in a sport coat and slacks, his eyes serious behind his glasses as he examined her mouth and jaw. The clinic was quiet at this time of night, the staff having left hours before. Overhead fluorescent fixtures glowed and hummed, reflecting harshly on the chrome fixtures of the sink and the instruments gleaming on a spotless Formica counter. “Now, why don't you tell me what happened.”
Marla was seated on a tissue-covered bed, her heartbeat finally slowing, the taste in her mouth and nose still foul, the pain screaming through her face beginning slowly to lessen.
Alex stood at the door of the examination room, his arms folded tightly over his chest as the doctor finished the job that Nick had started. The clinic was empty, the outer hallways dark.
“I . . . I got sick. Probably nerves or bad soup or both, I don't know,” she said with difficulty. The muscles in her jaw had atrophied and she could barely open her mouth. Ignoring the pain, she forced her lips to move. “I've been pretty tense lately. Anyway, I felt a little queasy after dinner, went upstairs to lie down and . . .” She hesitated and decided not to confide in the doctor about the malevolent presence she'd felt in her room. Not right now. Not until she was clearheaded, certain the man hadn't been just part of a nightmare, and she had determined whom she could trust. “I . . . I woke up . . . probably because of a bad dream, then I had to throw up. There was nothing I could do . . .” She shook her head. “It . . . it was awful.”
“Then, considering, I guess you're lucky,” he muttered under his breath as he stepped away from the examination table and stripped off his latex gloves. “You could have choked to death or suffocated.”
“Funny, I don't feel so lucky.” In fact she felt like hell on a bad day. No doubt she looked worse.
“I suppose not.” He cut a glance at Alex, then handed Marla a hand mirror so she could view the damage. Yep, the phrase “death warmed over” fit her description to a T. Tentatively she stretched her jaw. Excruciating pain tore through her face and she sucked in her breath. Dr. Robertson said, “You're going to feel your mouth for a few daysâprobably even weeks, but I'll prescribe something for the pain. Now, the good news is that your jaw's healed nicely.”
“I'll take any good news I can get,” she grumbled.
He chuckled and winked at her. “But take it easy, okay? Rest. Recover. And if I were you I wouldn't play hockey without a mask for a while.”
“I'll take that under consideration,” she said.
One side of the doctor's mouth elevated slightly. “Good. Now, keep your appointment with Dr. Henderson, though, as he did the initial surgery. He might want X rays to make sure the bones have knit, but it looks good to me.”
“Thanks,” she said, grateful the ordeal was over.
“So how's the stomach?” Robertson tossed his used gloves into a small chrome trash can.
“Better. A lot better.”
“You should have told someone you were nauseous.” Alex's eyes were dark with silent reproach, his brow furrowed, his lips pursed.
“Maybe you should have been home,” she said irritably.
His eyes narrowed just a fraction. “I was working.”
“It was after eleven.”
The corners of Alex's mouth tightened and the look he sent her could have cut through granite. “I guess you don't remember. I work late a lot. That's why I hired Tom. If you weren't so bullheaded . . .” His words faded and the tension that had drawn his face into a tight mask diminished. “Look, I'm just concerned, all right?” He unfolded his arms and rubbed the back of his neck. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“Me, too,” she agreed, but decided not to push the argument. “I'm just sick of all this.”
“We all are,” Alex said.
Robertson washed his hands at a sink mounted in the wall. “Is there any improvement in your memory?” His gaze met Marla's in the reflection of the mirror as he dried his hands.
“It's still not great, but I am making some breakthroughs. Just tonight I remembered giving birth to James.”
From the corner of her eye she saw Alex's spine stiffen slightly and a glimpse of surprise, no . . . was it worry . . . shadowed his eyes. “Did you?” he asked. “That's great. Fabulous.” His smile seemed sincere. Almost.
“And I remember the accident,” she asserted. “On the way over here, in Nick's truck, someone rounded the corner and his headlights were on high and all of a sudden the accident flashed before my eyes.”
Alex paled a bit beneath his tan.
“There was a man in the road,” she went on. “I was driving and I had to swerve to avoid him. That's when I hit the guardrail.”
She shuddered and Alex nodded, encouraging her to continue though she sensed trepidation in his eyes. “Go on.”
“It was horrible. A nightmare.” Marla forced the words through her teeth as the memories of that night, the screaming tires, wrenching metal, slick road, the shattering glass streaked through her brain. Phil Robertson winced as she explained what happened. “. . . and yes, I finally remember Pam, not much about her but I know she and I . . . we were planning something . . . I just can't remember what.”
“You're tired,” Alex said. “Give it a rest.”
“I will, but I need to talk to Detective Paterno.”
“In the morning.”
“Yes,” she said, suddenly weary, exhaustion seeming to seep into her bones. The pain in her jaw was now a dull ache, but she was drained. “I'll call in the morning.”
“Does Nick know about this?” Alex asked and Marla tensed, felt a twinge of guilt, as if she'd betrayed her husband.
“Yes.”
“It figures.”
“There's no reason to hide it.”
“No, no, of course not,” he said, but his smile was strained and he fiddled with the keys in his pocket. Her mind was starting to get fuzzy again, probably from the pain medication and she was tired . . . so damned tired. “Can we go home now?”
“Just let me give you a prescription,” Dr. Robertson said as he pulled out a small note pad and started writing on it. He tore the top sheet off and handed the slip to Alex. “This'll help with the pain, but it might make you a little tired.” He scribbled a note to himself and stuck it in a thick manila file.
Her medical file. All the information on her she'd ever want to know. A big part of the puzzle of who she was.
“Can I see that?” she asked.
“Can I see that?” she asked.
“What?” Robertson asked.
“The file.”
“Nothing in it but medical information.” The doctor's expression was kind enough, but there was something else behind the smooth exterior . . . it was almost as if he was patronizing her. Oh, God, she needed to sleep.
“About me,” she said, reaching forward. “It's mine, right?”
“Don't you think you've been through enough tonight?” Alex cut in and waved the doctor to put the records away.
“But I want to knowâ”
“Marla, another time, okay?” Alex's voice had a tone that immediately put her back up. “It's late. You need to go home and rest. You said so yourself.”
“I know what I need,” she said, pushing herself off the examination table, “and that's to learn more about myself. About you. About our family. It's starting to happen, Alex. I'm really starting to remember and I'll do anything,
any
thing to help my memory along.”
any
thing to help my memory along.”
“I understandâ”
“Do you?” she tossed back, then glared at the doctor.
“Do you?”
“Do you?”
“Hell, Marla, stop it. Phil came down here in the middle of the night as a favor to you because you wouldn't go to the hospital. Now, he has a family to go home to and so do we.”
Robertson clicked his pen and stuffed it into his pocket. “It's all right,” he said, but didn't hand over the file. “So tell me what you do remember,” he suggested, folding his arms over his chest, as well as Marla's medical records. There was no way she'd get to see her damned files tonight.
“Other than the accident and James's birth I only remember little things. Riding a horse, wearing a party dress, talking with Alex in the foyer of the house, nothing really very solid . . . just glimpses. I think seeing my records could jog other memories.”
“You're probably right,” he said with a change of attitude. “Why don't you come back to the clinic in a few days and if you want, I'll show you every scrap of information we've got on you?”
By that time it will be tampered with. Sanitized. Changed.
“I will,” she promised and told herself that she wasn't involved in some great conspiracy. All the records would be intact. She'd just seen too many movies, that was all. She walked to the sink, found a paper cup and rinsed her mouth again.
“Good. By the time you call, who knows? Maybe your memory will have returned.” He was so calmânearly dead, it seemed. Because it wasn't his life, his memory he was discussing. Robertson could afford to be patient while Marla felt her life slipping by, like grains of sand sifting through her open fingers, and she couldn't clench her fist to stop it. She took a final swallow of water and worked at stretching the muscles of her face. Her tongue felt odd and oversized, her teeth still acting as if they were laced together, and after speaking with only her lips for over two weeks, she had to force her tongue, teeth and jaw to work together.
Alex helped her into her coat and Phil snapped off the lights to the clinic. Together, with Alex's arm around her shoulders, they walked across the sky bridge to the parking lot where Alex ushered Marla to the Jaguar. “We'll have you over for drinks,” he promised Phil as he held the door open for her. “When Marla's more herself.”
She couldn't help bristling at the insinuation, but bit back a hot comment that rose quickly to her lips as Alex settled behind the wheel. There was something about him that brought out a bitchy side of her and she was spoiling for a fight. With him. Though she didn't really understand why.
“Okay, so how're you feeling now?” he asked, giving her a quick glance as he fired the engine and wheeled out of the lot.
“Like someone took a jackhammer to my jaw.”
“That good, huh?” He pressed on the lighter, then eased a pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his jacket.
“Yep, that good.” She couldn't rouse a smile. His attitude rankled and the fact that she suspected he and Robertson were keeping something from her grated on her nerves. Worse yet, his attitude of stewardshipâspousal concern when he was always awayâbugged the hell out of her. Something wasn't right and it wasn't her imagination, but she was too tired to figure it out tonight.
The lighter clicked and he lit up, sending a cloud of smoke into the car's interior. With a push of a finger, the driver's window slid down and a gush of rain-washed air slipped inside. Smooth jazz played from the speakers as he eased the car into the late night traffic and the Jaguar sped up a steep hill.
The lights of the city burned in the surrounding skyscrapers. In the distance she recognized the historic district of Jackson Square and the Transamerica pyramid. As she'd seen it a hundred times before. And there was more . . . a flash . . .
In her mind's eye she saw herself at a desk, in a huge steel and glass office building. A computer monitor hummed, a telephone jangled and in the cubicles surrounding hers, other workers were on phones, at keyboards, staring into monitors. A bank of windows on one wall opened up to a view of the San Francisco skyline and a cerulean sky that stretched over the Bay.
But that was crazy. She wasn't an office worker. Never had been. Huddled in the far corner of the Jag she looked at her husband, his face grim and set in the glare of oncoming headlights.
“Was there ever a time when I worked?” she asked, knowing the answer before he even said a word.
Alex gave off a deprecatory snort. “You? Come on.”
“I mean it.”
“Of course not. Why would you work?”
“I don't know, I just had a vision of myself at a desk . . . in a loud, open room separated by half walls and filled with other workers, men and women bustling by, all wearing suits. . . .” Her voice faded and she rubbed her temple as she tried to remember.
“Marla, you've never worked a day in your life,” he said and chuckled as if the thought were incredibly amusing. “You've been in dozens of office buildings, of course, but never as an employee.”
“You're certain?” she asked. Why would she dream this?
“Positive.” Some of the lines in his face softened in the dark interior. “You're imagining things.”
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