Remember Me (21 page)

sworn
hearing a low growl coming from the other man. “Very well. If you need anything, like always, call me, day or night. You have my home number.” he replied in an intimate voice.
Granger knew the punk was challenging him, but he also knew he had to be careful with his temper, at least in front of Cassandra.
As Brett turned to leave, Granger followed him down the hall to the door, then quickly looked over his shoulder to make sure Cassandra hadn‘t followed. Thankfully, him and the good doctor were alone.
Grabbing Brett by the collar, much the way a person would grab a cat, he slammed his face
against the doorframe, less noise that way, but not quite hard enough to break his nose. Leaning close, he hissed, “Come near my wife again and I’ll fucking kill you. You don’t believe me? Try me. I’m very capable of doing it, and won’t lose a
night’s
sleep over your sorry ass.” Grabbing the front of the Brett’s shirt and half lifting him off the ground, he stared into the man’s watering eyes. A trickle of blood began pouring from one of Brett‘s nostrils. “Your services are no longer needed,
DOCTOR!
” he spat. “This is your first and last warning. For your sake, I only hope it registers.”
Relinquishing his hold on the man’s shirt, he opened the door quickly, grabbed the back of his collar one last time, and hurled him out. He watched with considerable amusement as the doctor stumbled several feet, then fell face-first onto the floor.
Not giving him a second glance, he closed the door, locked it, and turned only to find Cynne’ standing there with an amused, mischievous glimmer in her eyes.
Covering her mouth with one hand to stifle her laughter at the sheepish look the big man was giving her, she whispered, “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that.” Patting him on the back, she gently nudged him back in the direction of the living room. “Go on, get in there and talk to Cassandra.”
Cassandra looked up as Cynne’ and Granger came back in, and her heart began beating harder as she looked into his blue eyes, which seemed to blaze with a savage, inner fire.
Trust your instincts
she thought for the third time that day. After what seemed like hours, she finally found her voice and croaked, “Would you like to have a seat…uhh.. Granger?” Graciously, she motioned towards an overstuffed chair.
He knew that she was uncomfortable, and she confirmed his suspicions when she picked up a throw pillow and held it in her lap, like a shield to protect herself from him.
“Thank you, but I’ve been sitting all day, I’ll stand.” he replied in a soft voice. Giving her a small, sad smile, he began walking around the room.
Nodding stiffly, she resumed her conversation with her mother, but found it increasingly difficult to keep her eyes off him as he walked around the room slowly, carefully studying every little thing like it was a rare museum piece.
Putting his hands behind his back, Granger walked around the room, absorbing his wife’s surroundings, wanting to find out everything she had done, everything she had enjoyed doing in the three years she had been away.
The small apartment was tiny compared to the three bedroom unit she had lived in when they first met, and it really bothered him that she had lived so simply all this time, while he had had the best of everything. He smiled a little when he spotted a table in one corner. The table was weighed down with books, and she even had several stacks underneath. He would bet good money that she had read each book more than one time. Actually, from what he remembered, she usually read a book several times before growing weary of it. But
even then she could never bear to part with them, she treasured them the way some woman treasured fine jewelry. He remembered that a few months after they had first met, she had
taken
him to what she called her special sanctuary. It turned out to be a used bookstore in the Abington, Virginia Flea Market. She had walked into the junk market, that had been once a livestock yard, with all the excitement of one who was on their way to the Royal Court to meet the Queen of England. Her eyes had lit up when she stepped into the small, cramped interior. Books were piled everywhere. Both on sagging shelves, and in boxes that were
lying
in the narrow aisles, which made it difficult to navigate your way around the place.
“Why Cassandra, what are you doing back again young lady, you were just here yesterday” a plump, elderly white woman from behind the counter had greeted her with a friendly smile.
Smiling, Cassandra had grabbed his arm excitedly and said, “Hi, Beatrice. This is my friend, Granger. I brought him here because all he reads are stuffy old business reports. I wanted to show him all your wonderful treasures.”
The woman had chuckled, her gray eyes twinkling with amusement and curiosity. “Well well, you must be something special, Mr. Granger. That young lady has been coming here for two years now, and
YOU
are the first person she’s ever brought along with her.”
The shy look on Cassandra’s face had told him the elderly woman was telling the truth.
That day Cassandra had introduced him to his now-favorite author, Carl Hiaasen.
Not in person, but by her glowing summary of a book of his entitled ’Lucky You’.
He had bought the book, and had enjoyed it so much he had bought every subsequent book released by the author. ‘Lucky You’ had been a comedy/romance, and was still the funniest book he had ever read in his life.
Snapping out of his daydream, he looked at the large potted plants arranged on and around the small bay window. It seemed most of the things she had loved before hadn’t changed, and that gave him some degree of comfort. Hanging on one wall were several framed photos, and he walked over to examine them more closely. Most of the photos were of smiling children, surrounded her. In one, both she and the children were covered in paint, and it looked as if they had been working on a mural of some sort. Looking at the children, he thought of Regan. He had yet to figure out how he was going to tell him that his mother didn’t remember him.
What do I say? How can I make him understand what’s going on, what happened to his mother?
He
wondered.
“Granger?” Jocelyn’s voice called.
Turning, he smiled softly.
“Yes, hon?"
“
Cynne’ is taking me to the supermarket to get some things, I want to cook a nice meal for all of us. Why don’t you keep Cassandra company while we‘re gone?”
His gaze went to his wife as she twisted the poor throw pillow.
Will she give me a chance? Can I get her to trust me?
He
thought. “Alright, don’t you worry, we’ll be fine.” As they stood to leave, Cynne’ gave him a sly wink. Silently mouthing the words
“Thank you.”
to her, he watched as they both grabbed their purses and left.
Glancing at his wife, it hurt him deeply that she looked like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck.
You’ve gotten this far, you can’t fuck it up now. Just be patient, give her time..
He
reminded himself. His large shoulders slumping in resignation, he turned back to the framed photos to gather his thoughts, hoping he would figure out a way to reach her. “Those are my children in my craft class.” he heard her say, so softly he could barely hear her. Turning, he was unable to hide his surprise that she had even spoken to him.
Taking that as a positive sign, he walked to the chair opposite of her and sat down. “You teach crafts at the children’s home? Do you enjoy teaching?” he asked softly, and for a change, was rewarded with an emotion in her eyes other than fear. Her brown eyes now glowed like tiger-eye stones.
She perked up, a faint smile on her lovely face. “Oh, yes, I love it! Actually, I use art as a form of therapy for the children. Several are responding very well. As far as the abuse they’ve suffered, it’s often easier for them to express themselves through art, rather than words. Some of them are very talented.”
As she talked, his smile broadened. She seemed reanimated, and was expressing herself just as much with hand gestures as she was with words. Just like she used to.
She’s still the same woman…
he thought.
Standing suddenly, she went to a small bookcase he hadn’t had the time to look at earlier, reached down, and pulled out a thick, leather-bound scrapbook. “This is some of their work. The children’s, I mean. I’ve managed to get some art students from the college to work with them, from time to time. Even a local sculptor, too.”
Approaching his seat, he was surprised when she actually sat down on the arm of the chair, opened the scrapbook, and offered it to him. Flipping through the pages for him, she explained each page, and gave a brief description of the child who did it. With growing fascination, he sat spellbound as she told him that not only did she work at the home during the weekdays, but she also volunteered at a local daycare center on weekends, one for low-income families. It was non-profit organization that was ran by a local church.
She actually beamed when he informed her that she had previously ran a daycare at the community center in their own hometown, and that she held a degree in early childhood development.
“That’s great, maybe I can use that to get Sister Catherine to allow me to take over the daycare full time.” she gushed, her beautiful smile making him want to melt.
Frowning slightly, it suddenly occurred to him that she had no intention of leaving, and planned on staying right where she was. Shaking his head, he said in a soft, but firm voice, “Cass, you’ll have to give up your job here. I can’t ignore my businesses, and more importantly, we have a son to raise.”
Her own smile vanishing suddenly, she shook her head and replied, “What are you talking about, this is my home. You can’t ask me to just leave the only place I know, and the only people that I know. People that I trust.”
Feeling overwhelmed, she jumped up and reached for the scrapbook, intending to put it back in
its
place, and became alarmed when Granger stood himself and grabbed her arm firmly. “Don’t you touch me!” she cried.
Without letting go of her arm, he bent down and placed the book on the coffee table, then turned to face her with a grim look on his face.
He’ll never allow you to leave this time, he’ll lock you away from everything and everyone you love! Why did they leave me alone with him, and why did I trust him?
Her
mind screamed in a panic.
The look of terror in her beautiful eyes cutting his heart like a knife, he released her and held both his hands out to hopefully calm her. “Cass, you have no reason to be afraid of me, sweetheart. I would rather die than hurt you! Please…please believe me. You have to come back home, I need you, WE need you.”
In a voice was that was as distant as an echo in an empty crypt, she asked, “My son, our son, Regan, does he ever ask about me? Why I left? Does he think
badly
of me?”
Not wanting to alienate her further by telling a lie, he answered truthfully. “Well, he was hurt. He’s heard some pretty unflattering things from his friends. Friends who were just curious, repeating gossip they had heard from their mothers.”
Covering her face with her hands, she began to weep silently as she backed up to the couch, sat down heavily, and began rocking back and forth slowly.
“Cassandra, I’m sorry, but under the circumstances…” his voice trailed off as he gestured helplessly with his hands.
“I never would have left him, I feel that in my heart.” she sobbed. Looking up at him with tears were flowing down her dark cheeks, she said, “I dreamed about him, and when my mother showed me the picture I knew he was my son, there was no doubt in my mind.”
Sitting down beside her, he slowly and carefully reached over and brushed the tears from her cheeks. “Please don’t cry, there‘s really no need to. Here, let me show you something that will make you smile.” Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled his wallet out. Flipping it open, he pulled out a small photo and handed it to her. “Regan is a wonderful
boy. He’s a great student, very intelligent, and very well mannered. He’s a lot like you, you know. He has an artistic side, he loves creating with his hands, and he loves to draw. You know, Regan makes me feel like I matter. It’s like, no matter what the rest of the world thinks of me, or how they see me, it doesn’t matter, because to him, I‘m Dad. That feeling alone makes living
worthwhile
.”
Studying the tiny photo intently, she smiled faintly, sniffed, and blinked back a stray tear. “He looks like you, almost a carbon copy.”
Pulling out another photo, he handed it to her. It was a picture of her, cradling their newborn son in her arms, as he stood behind them both, with his arms wrapped around them protectively. “We look so…happy.” she said with wonder, wishing desperately for the elusive memory of that day to return.
“Yes, we were." he said quietly.
Looking at the photo even more closely, she spoke more to herself than to him. “I look a little different”
Reaching out slowly, he touched her chin, and tilted her head up until their eyes met. “Your hair was a little longer, and your nose a bit wider, but you’re still beautiful to me.” he whispered. Unable to help himself, he reached out and slowly began running one big hand down her short, silky hair. When she didn’t move, he brought his other hand up, gripped both her shoulders firmly, yet gently, and pulled her close. Bracing himself for rejection, his heart soared when she didn’t protest.
Part of her wanted to bolt, but deep down, she found his touch exciting.