Mind Lies (6 page)

Chapter Eight

“In my memories, or dreams, whatever you want to call them, his name is Locklin,” I tell her.

“I don’t know anyone by that name, babe. What else you got?”

I smile. “He’s big, broad shouldered. He has inky-dark hair and calls me Lass.” I shoot my eyes her way. “Anything yet?”

She shakes her head. “No. But he sounds delicious. Keep going.”

I do.

I tell her about the coffee shop and the ride on his motorcycle. I tell her about the questions and the time I shared with him in bed. She confirms that eggs Benny is my favorite breakfast. I tell her about his tattoos, his love for Ireland, and his accent.

I tell her about having rough sex against the door to my apartment above the laundromat.

“Wait!” She jerks upright in my bed, crosses her legs, and looks at me. “When we met, in our night classes, I told you that you always smelled good, and you told me it was because you lived above a laundromat. Everything you owned always smelled like fresh linen.”

My heart skips a beat.

Once.

Twice.

I whisper, fearing to lose what I feel is the first bit of progress since I left the hospital.

“Did I have long hair then?” I ask, smoothing my short hair behind my ears.

Portia looks as though she’s seen a ghost. She nods and says, “Yeah babe, you did.”

We break into watery smiles. It may not be everything, but it’s definitely something. It’s one step higher on the staircase reuniting my past and present.

My watery smile fades as I remember my reason for leaving that apartment. “Were you ever there, or do you know where that apartment is?”

She shakes her head. “No, I don’t. I remember you coming back after taking some time off. I think it was just a few days after a weekend, or something like that. You said moving took longer than you thought it would. I saw the next apartment, typical building near Draco Street, after we became closer. We didn’t share much back then, Jerri. I think that’s why we worked; we didn’t pry into each other’s lives—but we clicked,” she says, shrugging her shoulders.

I silently agree with her. She’s to the point. No nonsense. I feel much the same way. After only knowing her for a few days, I understand what she’s telling me.

Some people work, and some don’t.

Portia and I—we work.

“Portia?”

She leans back into the pillows. “Yeah, Jer?”

“I was leaving him. He was going to leave and come back after a month or two, and I was planning to be gone by the time he would have gotten back.” I swallow against the impending tears. “I was pregnant.”

“Oh shit.”

I nod. “Yeah. Oh shit. Did I give up a child Portia? Did I lose one?”

Tears glisten in her eyes. She shakes her head. “I don’t know, Jer. I don’t think so. I mean, maybe you lost it? Unless you had it before you met me. But that doesn’t make sense because you told me you moved when we were in class together. You said you planned to be gone before that guy, Lock, would have been back?”

“Yes. At least, that’s what happens in the dream.”

“Did you have a belly in the dream?” she quietly asks.

I shake my head. No.

“The only thing I can think of is getting ahold of your medical history. Who’s that doctor? . . . The head doctor . . . The one who you’re meeting with again?”

“Dr. Katherine Pope. She told me to call her when I was ready.”

Portia agrees. “Well that’s the first thing we’ll put on the to-do list tomorrow. Even if you aren’t totally ready, she should have your file. We’ll go from there.”

Feeling good about that, and our talk, I agree. There’s nothing more I can do.

“I feel better, knowing that I know
something
that makes a little bit of sense.”

“I get it, Jer. Well, not completely. But I’m happy something is coming together, even if I can’t give you all the answers.”

“Me too,” I breathe out. “Now, how about you show me these photo albums before I call it a night.”

She smiles and grabs the first one. “Prepare for some laughs my friend. We’ve captured some good moments in these babies.”

So that’s what we do.

We laugh.

At pictures of Portia and I dressed up as nuns on Halloween. At poor Cooper with dozens of lipstick kisses all over his sleeping form. Portia tells me his response was that she can take advantage of him anytime she wants.

We laugh at a picture of Cory—our part-time shop worker and best, gay guy friend—pleading, in the prayer position, to Cooper to leave Portia and run away with him.

She informs me this is a common occurrence and that Cory is devoted to his partner, Mark, so it’s all in good fun.

I take it all in—the smiling faces, the laughter—hoping that one day I remember first-hand what is caught in this album. My past looks welcoming. It looks warm. It looks as though I enjoyed myself in much of it, even if some photos remind me that I was alone, that the man from my memories is not included.

I recall the stories Portia told me in the hospital about a man named Tom Black.

“I don’t see any pictures of that guy you told me about in the hospital. Tom?”

She snorts. “Be grateful, Sweets, be grateful. I can’t believe you heard me.”

I nod. “I did. Even about the waxing.”

She laughs. “God, we were dumb. Anyway, Tom was an asshole. Hot, but an asshole. About a year after school, we were both still working at Ménage, which was a cross between a gentleman’s club and a classy restaurant. Dancers—not nude, tasteful—worked there. Plus, the tips were killer. Anyway, he was one of your regulars.”

I cut her off. “Whoa, did I dance?”

“Ha! No! Neither of us did, not that there’s anything wrong with it. Like I said, not a nudie bar. Anyway, he always sat in your section when you were working. One thing led to another and then you two were dating. We were both saving money. Your dream was always the shop. Mine was always being around people and interior design. That’s part of the reason why we fit so well. Anyway, you left Ménage and went to work for Tom. He’s in real estate. His secretary quit. Total cliché, I know. But you really liked him. Hell, we all did, except Cooper. But Cooper doesn’t like any guy who tries to get in your pants.”

I laugh with her. “So what happened after?”

She sighs. “He was an asshole. Soon, you and I barely hung out. You were working twelve hours a day and were always going to dinner with him and his clients. You wore
pant suits
,
which I’ll tell you now is so not your style.”

She gestures to the flying bird tattoo on my shoulder and my pierced nose.

I get the picture.

“He just ruled you, Jer. He tried to turn you into someone you’re not. Long story short, one day you woke up, had enough, and left.”

Turning my head, I ask, “Did he come after me?”

She nods. “Yes. But one thing about you, Jerri, is that once your mind is made up about something, there’s no changing it. Good news is you had enough money at that point, which helped get your pride and joy started,” she says, pointing to where the shop sits below this apartment.

My pride and joy.

So why do I feel so empty?

“Because I’m not with you, Lass.”

His words echo through my mind. They’re a stark reminder of what I have and what’s not here. I tell Portia I’m tired, and she takes the dishes from the room. I don’t ask if she’s sleeping here.

I’m not sure if that’s because I want to be alone, or because I hope she stays.

Chapter Nine

“Sing to me, Jerri girl.”

I close my eyes to absorb my surroundings. His warm chest against my naked back. Strong arms around me. Our legs tangled in the sheets.

My heart at peace. My mind clear.

I feel the breeze filter through the open patio doors at the end of the bed. The sun is setting on the other side of the lake. I dread when it goes down, knowing it’s our last night together before he has to go away again—our last night in this cabin, our meeting spot.

Warm lips kiss my shoulder and my neck before latching on to my ear. Lightly, nibbling. He doesn’t wait for me, not that he ever does. He begins the song, softly singing the haunting tune about love and loss.

It’s heartbreaking and beautiful.

It’s everything we are.

His hand slides up my abdomen, over my naked breast, and up my neck, completing its journey at my chin. Pushing with his hand until my head is tipped back, he covers my lips with his own.

“Sing, Jerri girl.” He breathes into my mouth before kissing me.

And like a sucker for punishment and agony, I do as he asks.

I sing.

“I know you have to leave,

But let me beg you to stay.

This agony, you’re my heart’s reprieve,

I’ll still love you anyway.

Don’t make me ask,

Don’t make me choose,

My soul’s run down,

You’re too much to lose.

But I’m beggin’ you today,

Please, please just choose to stay.

I’m on my knees,

To do as you please,

Please take me anyway.”

Lock guides me down to the bed, hovering over me so he can begin his goodbye. It starts with his mouth, where he kisses my face—my cheeks, my nose, my lips, my chin. I keep my eyes closed, lost to the sensation. Sometimes it’s easier, sometimes it’s not.

This time, I just want to feel.

I don’t think I could ever forget what Lock looks like. He’s too beautiful for that to happen.

My pretty and reckless.

So, sometimes, I just lose myself to the sensations. I get lost, feeling his mouth on my breasts, feeling his hands dance over my body, claiming it. I get lost listening to his Irish brogue, which is always stronger when he’s turned on or pissed off.

“Tell me, Lass,” he groans, reaching the juncture between my legs.

I know what he wants.

He craves my voice just as much as I crave his. “Devour me, Lock.”

He groans against my wet heat before devouring me with his tongue. His fingers clench my hips. Tomorrow, the bruises will be the only evidence he was here.

Owning me.

Not just my body, but my heart.

He plays my body like a well-tuned instrument. Owning and mastering every note. Making me his own. I have no choice but to bend when he guides me. Move when he touches me.

I let out a gasp as his tongue swirls and teeth nip. Those depraved, strong hands leave my hips, allowing his fingers to delve into my body.

Forcing me to fly.

“Lock!” I cry out, trying to push him away and pull him closer at the same time.

He gives me no break. He never does. His mission doesn’t stop until he leaves me.

Broken.

Bruised.

And breathless.

He pulls out his fingers, grabs my thighs, and flips me onto my knees before entering from behind.

“Shh, Jerri girl. Hold on.” He groans as he wraps his left arm around my stomach and his right arm between my breasts so that he can hold onto my neck.

It’s possessive.

It’s bliss.

I rest my head on his shoulder, hands clasped behind his neck. All I can do in this position is hold on, take what he gives, and hope to hell he never lets go.

But he will.

He always does.

“So tight, my Lass. So beautiful. Watch.”

I open my eyes to see our reflection in the mirror above the dresser. His scarred, dark arms beautifully contrast my pure-white flesh.

But we fit.

We always fit.

Moving his hand from my waist to my center, I watch as his fingers complete one torturous circle after another on my already-too-sensitive clit.

“I’m g-gonna come!” I pant.

Lock’s strong fingers tilt my head to the side. His mouth latches onto my neck. Kissing. Sucking. Marking. He thrusts into me hard enough that I know I’ll ache for days.

But it’s a sweet ache.

“Come, Jerri girl.”

And I do. Like every other time, it’s more explosive than the last.

He buries himself to the hilt, following me into the heavenly bliss that only he and I can create together.

It’s soul binding.

It takes the breath from your lungs and the words from your mouth.

Holding me close, still inside me, Lock lowers us gently to the bed, my back held to his chest. His arms clutching. Our legs entwined.

He draws the blankets up to cover our sweat-cooled bodies before squeezing me close and kissing the top of my head.

“I care for you deeply, Lass.”

I don’t respond because I feel it. I never felt it with Tom; nothing I felt with him came close to what Lockin and I share.

I care for you deeply, Lass.

He’s sure to tell me every time. Never, “I love you.” Sometimes that I’m his water, whatever that means.

Too tired to respond, too sated to bother with questions, and too sad to know how I’ll feel in the morning when he’s gone, I choose to stay silent.

He’ll kiss me when he goes, and I’ll ask him to stay.

Like I do every time.

But every time, it’s getting harder.

It’s getting older—and lonelier.

I fear that one day, I just won’t ask anymore.

I’m sure he fears it, too.

* * *

I’ve just finished telling Dr. Pope—or
Katherine
, as she’s instructed me to call her—all about my memories, including the parts Portia has proven were factual. It has taken almost an hour, but she has been attentive and has listened to every word. She is truly fascinated by the mind and how it works or doesn’t work. And, as a plus, she’s compassionate and doesn’t put up with nonsense.

She’s wonderful.

“So that’s why I asked you to bring my medical file. I was hoping you could answer that question for me,” I say.

Katherine pulls a file out of her bag and sets it on the kitchen table where we’re seated. Apparently, house calls are not completely uncommon, especially with someone in my condition—it’s hard to travel. It also costs about as much as half a small country, but after looking over some of my finances with Portia this morning, I’ve concluded that I can afford it.

Katherine shuffles through the small folder and pushes it to me. I scan the medical form before reading the Doctor’s messy handwriting.

Jerri Sloane, Age 23

Brought in by ambulance. Suffered chorionic hematoma.

Patient was nine weeks pregnant at the time of miscarriage.

Kept under observation for twenty-four hours before release.

Bed rest for the following week.

Patient expected to make full recovery.

“I was pregnant.”

Words blur on the pages through my watery eyes. I think of how I could have had an eight-year-old son or daughter at the moment.

They would have called me
Mom.

The questions keep on coming. Was Lock with me? Had I left him by then? Did I call him when I was at the hospital?

“How you feeling, Jerri?” Katherine asks.

I shake my head. “I woke up this morning feeling like I had some answers, you know? Portia and I put two and two together, so when I woke up, I felt a little less crazy than I did yesterday. But now?” I bow my head and wipe under my eyes. “I honestly don’t know, Doc. Was I careless? Did something happen to make me miscarry? Was anyone with me when it happened? I know Portia wouldn’t have been because we weren’t that close yet.”

It sounds as if I wasn’t very close with anyone. I have memories of Lock and proof of my life with Portia.

But who else did I have?

No one.

“It’s a lot to take in. And unfortunately I can’t answer those questions for you. Why don’t we continue talking about what you
do
remember? That’s always a good place to start.” She puts her tablet and stylus on the table, ready to take notes.

“How about the apartment, Jerri. Do you remember where it was, what laundromat?”

I shake my head and reply, “No.”

“Might I suggest going for a drive one day when you’re feeling better to see if you can find it. Perhaps that’ll jog your memory. We know you were living there while you went to night classes with Portia, so it can’t be too far.”

Portia reaches over and squeezes my hand. “It’s a good idea, and I’d be happy to chauffeur.”

Katherine thanks her. “Alright, we have a plan. What about the other places in your memories: the cabin you talked about, or the songs you sang? Any of those ring any bells?”

“The places, I don’t know. There’s a coffee shop, but I don’t know the name. The cabin, I can only see the bed. And the song…” I pause, looking beyond the doctor and out the patio doors behind her. “The song I know. I can hear it, feel it, if that makes any sense.”

Smiling softly, she replies, “It makes sense to you, and that’s important right now. In fact, I encourage you to sing it in bed, in the shower, wherever you sang with him in the memory. Sometimes sounds bring back memories, and sometimes actions or pictures do the same thing. Like I told you, everyone is different.

“I’m trying to give you the tools I have to bring back your memory, but there’s a lot of life missing here, Jerri. There’s very little in your file. I’m not saying it’s uncommon for someone to grow up healthy, but usually we see children with a broken bone or two, the odd hospital visit for the flu, or your regular, womanly gynecological visits. Your file is full of the regulars from age twenty-two onward. But before that, there’s little.”

Portia tips her head to the side. “What are you saying, Doc?”

Katherine finishes jotting some notes down on her tablet. “What I’m saying is I think the only way to get the answers is for Jerri to remember. The only reason I ever see a blank file such as this is when a patient comes from another country. When that happens, I get in touch with that country and request the information I need. Jerri’s birth certificate says she was born here, in Ohio. So the only other thing I can think of is that whoever raised you didn’t keep up with the standard hospital visits. Or you spent a great deal of time somewhere other than the states.”

I lean my elbows on the table, head in hands. “Portia said I told her my parents died when I was younger. Is there anything about them in there?”

She nods. “There is. Sarah and William Matthews. They died in a car accident when you were twelve. Neither of them had living relatives, and neither had life insurance. You were placed into foster care at that time.”

“Am I able to get in touch with the foster families?”

Katherine closes the folder and rests her clasped hands on top of it. “There’s good news and bad news. An older couple looked after you. The husband passed when you were fourteen, and the wife passed when you were nineteen.”

“Christ, am I the bringer of death?” I half-laugh, half-sob. In one day, I’ve gone from knowing little to knowing that the four people who raised me, along with my unborn child, were taken from me.

I feel the emptiness of it. I feel that blank canvas of mine, which was slowly starting to show color, begin to fade again.

Loss.