With This Man, Page 9

  He smiles like he understands, but he really doesn’t. No one possibly could. ‘You’ll make new memories.’

  I shake my head. ‘Nothing can replace them.’

  He nods this time, not countering me. ‘Here are the details of Ava’s appointment.’ He hands me an envelope. ‘We removed the dressing on her head this morning. It’s healing nicely, but keep it clean. The same with her leg. You have my number, Mr Ward. Anything that might be worrying you, just call.’

  I take it and move past him, heading towards Ava’s room. My body is heavy. It feels like I could be walking against a gale-force wind, the relentless gusts not only holding my body back, but catching in my throat, too, making breathing harder.

  When I enter, I stand like a statue for a few seconds, at a loss for what comes next. ‘Bag,’ I blurt, rushing over to get it from beside her. ‘Are you okay to walk?’ Any other day, I’d have picked her up without a word, whether she liked it or not. Quite frankly, all this asking is fucking alien. And I hate it.

  She pushes herself up off the bed a little gingerly, and my instinct kicks in. I drop the bag immediately, desperate to ease Ava’s struggle and help her to her feet.

  She clings to me with both hands, one on each of my forearms as she straightens. I don’t know whether it’s because she needs to, or wants to. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t ever thank me for looking after you, Ava.’ I don’t mean to sound affronted, but it’s unavoidable. ‘You are my wife. It’s what I’ve been put on this earth to do.’

  She looks up at me, a small frown crossing her forehead, and I find myself holding my breath, waiting for her to tell me she remembers something – remembers me saying that before, because I know for damn sure I have. Or any recollection, no matter how small or insignificant she thinks it is. But when she shakes her head, I realise it’s not coming.

  I sigh deeply and get us moving, slowly but surely, constantly checking her for any signs of pain, or that this little trip is too much. She’s focused forward, concentrating hard on the simple task of putting one foot in front of the other. It’s so painful to watch her struggle. I can’t do it.

  I swing around to the nurses’ station. ‘Are there any fucking wheelchairs around here?’

  The nurse scans the area, clearly panicked. I can’t even bring myself to feel bad. ‘They’re all taken at the moment, sir. But if you don’t mind waiting, I will try to track one down.’

  ‘Don’t bother, I’ll fucking carry her.’ Turning back to Ava, I find round, startled eyes. ‘I’m carrying you,’ I inform her, just out of courtesy, dipping and gently lifting her into my arms. She doesn’t protest, which is a good job because I’m not watching her limp out of here.

  She’s studying me as I stride down the hall, probably assessing how tight my jaw is. I try to relax it, try to ease my strung muscles. I feel like I could explode with stress. With hope. With despair.

  Up ahead, a pair of double doors swings open, a gurney being pushed out by a porter. And on the bed, a body, the face covered by a white sheet. I find my feet slowing and my eyes putting Ava there. On that bed. Dead.

  My blood runs cold.

  ‘Jesse?’

  I jolt and look down to find my wife looking up at me with concern. I quickly shake away my morbid thoughts of what could have been. She’s still here. With me. She might not be her normal self, but she’s still here. I hold her tighter. I can’t help it. ‘Come on, let’s get you home.’

  ‘Home.’ She sighs, turning her eyes away from me. ‘Where is that again?’

  ‘Anywhere I am,’ I say, letting my usual candidness where my wife’s concerned creep back. Is she smiling a little? ‘Okay?’ I ask, not wanting to presume she’s finding me funny, or maybe recognising little pieces of us. But what else could she be smiling at?

  ‘You seem like the bossy type.’

  I laugh out loud, the burst of amusement completely unstoppable. ‘You have no idea, lady. No idea.’

  ‘I don’t like being told what to do, just so you know.’

  ‘Oh, I know.’ I laugh again, feeling a small amount of pressure lifting from my shoulders. Only small, but . . . still. I look down and unleash my smile, the one I reserve only for her, the one she’s not seen since she came around. It definitely has the desired effect, her body going a little lax in my arms. It’s another small sign. ‘And just so you know, that’ll soon change.’

  She scoffs. It’s the sweetest sound, even if it’s forced. ‘I don’t think so.’

  My smile widens, because that right there was my wife. Defiant. Difficult.

  Mine.

  Hope flourishes within me.

  Chapter 13

  I watch her neck crane a little as we pull up the driveway to our home, her eyes taking in the grounds of our little manor. ‘I live here?’ she asks, clearly astonished.

  ‘We live here,’ I correct her, rolling to a stop. ‘Have done for nearly eleven years.’

  I jump out and round the car, leaving Ava still taking in her surroundings from the passenger seat. I open her door, but when she shows no sign of getting out of my Aston, I dip and reach across her to unclip her seat belt. My cheek brushes her lips innocently, and she freezes, breathing in sharply. I freeze, too, my face millimetres from hers. From my peripheral vision, I can see her lips are pressed together, her eyes wide.

  Have I startled her? Set her heart racing with my closeness? Something tells me it’s both. My eyes drop to her lips, instinct demanding me to just kiss her. Kiss her. Consume her. Maybe that’ll trigger whatever it is that needs to be triggered.

  But she turns away from me, and the hope growing inside me dies a little. I clear my throat and back off, giving her space to get out of the car, which she does quietly and slowly, ignoring my offered hand.

  She takes slow, tentative steps to the door – slow because of her injured leg, and tentative because, painfully for me, she’s nervous. Every so often she peers over her shoulder at me. I say nothing, just follow her, feeling as hopeless as hopeless could be. I push the front door open and stand back, and she hovers on the threshold, looking around the entrance hall. I simply wait for her to find whatever courage she needs to enter. The kids’ shoes are scattered in the corner, the small patch of marble tiles dull from the mud they’ve brought in from the garden. It’s a small, silly sign of our family life, but it has Ava’s undivided attention. Her home. Her hand comes up to her chest, and I see the pulses of it under her palm.

  ‘Take your time,’ I murmur gently. She looks up at me and smiles a tiny smile before going back to taking in the space before her. She takes a step inside towards the collection of photographs lining the wall above the console table.

  My heart thrums in my chest as she edges closer to the pictures. Her hand reaches up to one of us on our wedding day, her lip slipping between her teeth and biting gently. Then she spends a while staring at one of me kneeling and kissing her pregnant tummy, her hand resting on her midriff as she does. She looks back to me and offers another small smile, which I return, so fucking nervous now, too. Then she finds one of my favourite pictures, one of the twins when they were toddlers, Jacob on my shoulders, Maddie on Ava’s. We’re on the terrace in Paradise. The blue sea behind us looks as alive as all of our eyes. The sun is as bright as my smile. Have any of these pictures spiked memories? Anything at all?

  Closing the door quietly, I approach her, taking in the pictures myself. Pictures of us. Of our little family. Happiness and love are all over this wall. Everywhere I look, I’m finding things that could trigger something, and I hope so much that they do. And then there’s my Ava Wall in the family room, all transferred from my penthouse at Lusso and added to over the years. Hundreds of pictures of the four of us. Maybe that will help, too. Because being in the hospital hasn’t, the surroundings cold, clinical and unfamiliar.

  Her shoulders tense when I’m just a few fe
et behind her, and she looks back at me, her face so sad. She recalls nothing. ‘I wondered if I was in some kind of nightmare.’ She turns back towards the photos. ‘Or someone was playing a cruel joke on me. I woke up and was told I was married and I have children, and until now I didn’t quite believe it.’ She points at the picture of us on our wedding day, her chin trembling. ‘That’s me.’ Her voice breaks, and she looks at me, tears flooding her eyes. ‘With you.’

  I nod, trying to force down my own emotion. Jesus, nothing much breaks me, but my wife so distraught is guaranteed to cut me open. She looks back at the pictures, wiping at her eyes. ‘And that’s me there, too.’ She points at a picture of the twins tackle-hugging her on the trampoline in the garden. ‘With . . .’ She hiccups over her words, sniffing back her sobs. ‘My children.’ Her shoulders start jumping, and she breaks down completely, covering her face with her hands.

  I drop her bag and move in to comfort her, fighting back my own tears. ‘Come here.’ I pull her into my chest and cuddle her, looking up to the ceiling in despair. What the hell am I going to do? Her petite frame is jumping against me as she cries, her grief pouring out as her reality crashes down. ‘It’ll be okay,’ I vow, dropping my head and burying my nose in her dark hair. ‘We’ll be okay, I promise.’

  ‘Why can’t I remember you? Why can’t I remember my children?’ She pushes me away violently, clenching her fists. ‘Why can’t I remember?’ she screams, shaking the house with the volume. ‘I need to remember! Please, help me remember!’ She folds to the floor, landing on her knees, sobbing like I’ve never seen my wife sob before. The sight will torment me for the rest of my days. Fucking kills me.

  I brush at my wet cheeks harshly and force myself to pull it together. She needs me to be together. Strong. Her husband. I scoop her up and cradle her in my arms, getting my own sense of comfort as she curls up into me and clings to me like her life depends on it. Like it’s natural.

  I walk us to the kitchen and sit down on a chair, holding her close to my chest while she lets it all out. What more can I do? Just be here. Hold her when she needs to be held. Tell her it’ll be okay. I keep my face close to hers, hushing her quietly until she eventually calms down. It could be a minute. It could be an hour. Time means nothing at the moment.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she sniffs, wiping at a wet patch on my T-shirt.

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ I reach up and wipe her eyes, and she lets me, studying my face closely while I savour the tender moment. I’m so grateful that she’s allowing me to comfort her like this. Does she realise that?

  ‘Where are the children?’ she asks, looking to the doorway, maybe listening for the sounds of kids.

  ‘I’ve asked your mum and dad to take them to the coast. Just so you can settle in and get used to things.’

  ‘But they’ll think I don’t want them.’ I see panic on her face, and it strangely reassures me to know that she cares about how they must be feeling. She may not remember her children, but she still has a mother’s instinct.

  ‘They’re fine, I promise you, Ava. I told them that I need time with you to help you remember some things.’

  Her eyes fall to my chest and flit across the material of my Ralph Lauren shirt. She’s thinking. ‘I do want them,’ she says on a frown. ‘I know I want them.’ Looking up at me, she takes her hands to my T-shirt and fists the cotton. ‘I know they’re mine.’

  I nod as I breathe in, my eyes glued to hers. ‘I know you know.’

  She returns my nod, thankful for my faith in her, as she smiles through a suppressed yawn. She’s knackered. She needs to rest.

  ‘You should get some sleep.’

  She looks down her front and then feels her ponytail. ‘I’d love a shower.’

  A shower. I’ve lost count of how many times we’ve showered together. The times I’m oblivious as I’m washing myself and that waft of cool air hits me, a sign my wife is about to join me under the spray. Now isn’t going to be one of those times, and it hurts so bad.

  ‘Sure.’ I stand and set her on her feet, backing up, reluctantly showing my intention to let her get on with it.

  A tiny frown wrinkles her brow. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’

  I close my eyes briefly, gathering air into my dying lungs. Of course. She needs a tour of her own home.

  ‘I’ll show you.’ Resisting claiming her hand, I take the stairs, my feet heavy, my heart heavier as Ava follows, gazing around as she does.

  I enter our suite, trying not to be nervous of showing my wife where we sleep. ‘The dressing room is through there,’ I say, pointing across the bedroom to the double doors. ‘And the bathroom is there.’

  Her dark gaze drags across my body as she passes me, taking tentative steps towards the dressing room. Uncertain whether I should, I follow, standing on the threshold as she absorbs the space. ‘You keep your underwear and nightwear in that chest,’ I tell her.

  She slides open the top drawer and surveys the contents. Then she moves to the next, pulling out one of my favourite negligées, feeling it for a while before sifting through the rest of the drawer. ‘There’s a lot of lace,’ she says quietly, making me smile a little. ‘Where are my cotton pyjamas? The cosy stuff?’

  ‘You like lace.’

  Her eyebrows slowly rise. ‘Clearly.’

  ‘And I do, too.’ I shrug when she shoots me an interested look. ‘A little.’

  ‘You buy all my underwear, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s my favourite kind of shopping,’ I admit, unabashed.

  She nods, slowly and unsurely, our eye contact never wavering. But the lust I always find so hard to control when we’re alone together, especially when lace is thrown into the mix, isn’t as strong today. Not for me, and not for her. It’s brutal, but I know sex isn’t going to fix this.

  ‘So I guess I should put one of these on?’ she finally asks.

  I hate that it’s a question. And I hate even more that I have to answer with the answer I don’t want to give. ‘Wear what makes you comfortable.’ I push my shoulder off the door. ‘I’ll leave you to shower. I have T-shirts in the drawer if you’d prefer.’

  I make my way downstairs, trying so hard not to feel defeated by such a trivial thing. Lace. It’s trivial but means so much to both of us.

  I grab a beer from the fridge, then make my way into the games room and plonk down heavily on one of the leather couches. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I find my Sonos app and put on some music, if only to kill the unbearable sound of my thoughts. Gnarls Barkley’s ‘Crazy’ comes on, and I don’t bother changing it. It seems too apt.

  My eyes fall to the bar in the corner, where every liquor known to man is stashed. Not for my enjoyment – I haven’t touched the hard stuff for years – more for that of our guests when we entertain. But that vodka . . .

  What I would do right now to escape from this nightmare. To get blind fucking drunk and pass out, and hopefully wake up to my life as it should be.

  I tear my gaze away, drop my head back, and let my thoughts continue to torment me as the track goes on. Let the pain penetrate deeper, because she’s upstairs showering alone. And I’m down here feeling useless.

  I finish the bottle of beer but resist getting another, and go to the office. I sit at the desk and fire up the iMac, and then search through the files until I find what I’m looking for. The photos. Thousands snapped from the very beginning, to just recently at my fiftieth. Moments captured in time, faces smiling, and sometimes even scowling. Endless happy memories, every photograph loaded with love. I click through, my pain worsening with each image. How can she not remember any of this? How can she not remember me? I drop the mouse and scrub my hands down my rough face, feeling so fucking knackered – physically, emotionally. I need a shower, too.

  I leave the folder open, ready to let Ava scroll through the years when she’s ready, then drag myself upstairs. There
’s not a peep from our bedroom, and when I push into our room, I find Ava snuggled up in our bed. I can’t help feeling hurt. She’s always claimed it’s impossible to get to sleep without lying on my chest. Then I feel a little hopeful, because she’s wearing the lace instead of the T-shirt I offered. I ignore the fact that she has always slept naked. Baby steps.

  After creeping to the bathroom, I take a quick, lonely shower, and then I trim my stubble, taking it down to the three days’ worth that she loves so much. I spend only a few seconds taking in the man before me. I’m a fucking mess. I feel weak, disheartened and sad. I’ve been in hell before, and I feel like I’m free-falling back there now. Why? Why is this happening? What did I do?

  I brace my hands on the sink and breathe deeply, trying not to let the anger that’s brewing erupt. I don’t like it when things are out of my control, and right now, my world is spiralling into fucking bedlam. And there’s nothing I can do about it, only hope. My shoulders rolling with the strain of keeping my temper contained, I growl, my teeth clenched, desperate to hit something.

  I look up and face myself again. And before I realise what’s happened, the mirror shatters and my knuckles split. It’s okay, though. Now my reflection looks exactly how I feel.

  Broken.

  Chapter 14

  I can’t stand how quiet it is around here. I can’t hear the kids tearing through the house, can’t hear the coffee brewing, can’t hear Ava shouting at the twins to get their little arses into gear for school. It’s deadly silent.

  I stare at the coffeemaker for a few seconds, feeling anger building. It’s just a coffeemaker. But it’s a coffeemaker that’s always brewing when I get downstairs in the morning, because my wife has switched it on. It’s her thing. That’s what she does, and today she hasn’t. Because she doesn’t know.

  I yank the cupboard open and search for the coffee. Finally, I locate it, pour it in, and fiddle with the stupid fucking machine, cursing my way through it. I don’t even know how to work the fucking thing. I don’t know if I’ve done it right, but I switch it on, hoping for the best, and silently will it to hurry the hell up to rid the kitchen of the god-awful quiet.