Remembering Red Thunder
He handed a plate of oatmeal cookies to Jessie Ross, the night nurse. “I brought a treat for my wife.” He smiled and whipped his other hand from behind his back. “And for you wonderful Florence Nightingales, a box of chocolates.”
“Aren’t you the sweetest man?” Jessie gushed. She placed the plate of cookies on the nightstand beside the bed and the box of chocolates on the dresser by the upholstered glider she was using. A canvas sack with knitting lay beside the chair. Pale blue wool ran from the bag to a set of knitting needles that held what looked like a sleeve for a baby sweater.
“Now you make sure you leave some for the day staff or I’ll never hear the end of it,” he teased.
“This box is big enough to entertain an army.” She smiled at him and he knew he could have her if he wanted. All he’d have to do is ask and she’d fall into his arms. But his taste didn’t run to short, skinny brunettes with no figure, even when the room’s low light gave her pretty-enough features a soft golden glow. Besides, as part of his image of devoted husband, he’d decided it was best not to fool around with the staff at the Pine Creek Home. Finding a willing partner was never a problem.
“How’s she been doing this week?” he asked. He sat on the teal leather chair by the bed and stroked his wife’s silky blond hair. They’d wanted to cut it to make it easier to tend, but he’d insisted they leave it long and loose.
“No change really,” Jessie said, and popped a chocolate in her mouth. “She’s been a little more active during the day.”
“How so?”
“She likes to sit outside and puts up a fuss when we take her in.”
“Ah, yes, she was always one for the great outdoors.”
“She’s been more fussy about food, too. We practically have to force-feed her. She’s come up a touch anemic on her tests, but don’t worry, the doctor’s got her on iron. She’ll appreciate those cookies. They’re her favorite.”
“Well, in her case, it’s the little things that make a difference.”
“You’re so good to her. I’ll leave you alone and take my break now,” Jessie said.
“That would be great. Take your time. My wife and I have a lot of catching up to do.”
Smiling and all but batting her eyelashes, Jessie tiptoed out of the room.
They all thought his twice-weekly visits were husbandly devotion. In truth, they were an inspection of his investment. As long as his darling wife was nothing more than a body going through the motions of life, he was free to live as he pleased. Her vacant mind bought him immunity.
He scooted the chair closer to the bed, held her hand in case someone should happen by and peek through the glass window on the door, and whispered in her ear, “Remember, darlin’, when you thought you could manipulate me as easily as you did your sweetheart? You learned your lesson, didn’t you? I always win.”
She turned her head at the sound of his voice and opened her eyes. There beneath the dull veneer in her gray-green eyes was a spark of something that needed to be nipped before it got out of control.
“I’ve noticed more light in your eyes lately and this longing for the outdoors isn’t good. I’ve got just the thing. My friend says that one extra dose should keep you right where you are.”
With his back carefully hiding his activity, he swabbed the crook of her elbow with an alcohol pad and injected a small dose of an experimental drug. The needle was so tiny it left no mark on her delicate skin. She mewled like a kitten in pain, tried to twist away, but she was too weak and there was nothing she could do to stop him.
“That’s it, darlin’, take it in. Let me take care of you. Let me shelter you from the real world. You were always too good for them.”
He returned the syringe and the used alcohol pad to a sunglasses case in his blazer pocket.
As long as Ellen’s brain misfired, there was no one to deny any of his claims, there was nothing to stop him. He was on top of the world and climbing higher every day.
“Sleep well, darlin’.”
Chapter Two
The gash on Chance’s head worried Taryn. The swollen blue and purple mark curved from temple to temple. Five stitches pinched the skin above his left eyebrow.
Watching him so still and white beneath the hospital sheets made her soul wither by inches. The emergency-room doctor had told her Chance had regained consciousness for a while before he’d slipped into a coma and that he might also be suffering from traumatic amnesia. He’d told her not to worry, that Chance’s injuries probably weren’t life-threatening. But how could she not worry? The man she’d thought invincible was lying in a hospital bed unconscious.
“The chili will keep,” she told him, trying to keep up a one-sided conversation to fill the silence that was otherwise too heavy to bear. “Probably taste even better tomorrow. So will the pie. And I’m sure Ruby will have another basketful of beans to sell before the week’s out.”
Not a muscle moved, not an eyelash twitched. She could be watching a corpse, except that the machinery beside him with its beeps and moving lines told her he was alive.
“Maud came by the bakery this afternoon. Right when I was closing, too. Have you ever noticed she seems to time her every action in a way that will irritate somebody?” Taryn gave a weak laugh. “She was complaining about the heat as she bought every last buttermilk biscuit I had. Plus a loaf of cinnamon raisin bread. Plus half a dozen sweet rolls. And you know those didn’t last until she got home.”
Taryn held Chance’s hand and stroked the back of it with her thumb. The skin was rough and familiar beneath her finger, but cold. She hiked the blanket over his chest and wrapped both her hands around his to warm him. Her lips trembled and she pressed them tight to hold back a sob.
“Hey,” she said, trying hard to inject some lightness into her voice. “Maybe now you’ll take the vacation you’ve been meaning to take—for what?—seven years now. We could go away for a week. Or ask Liz and Jake to join us, and you and Jake could go diving while Liz and I go antiquing.”
Wake up. Please wake up. Seeing him like this was killing her. She couldn’t bear the thought that he wouldn’t come back to her, of trying to live without the man she loved with all her heart. He gave her confidence, made her feel secure. He was always there for her. She needed him now more than ever. She squeezed his hand and willed him to squeeze back.
“I’ve got something to tell you. I think you’ll be pleased. But I want to see the look in your eyes when I tell you my secret. So you’ll just have to wake up, you hear?”
She wanted to see the initial shock of her announcement widen his dark eyes, then see the slow spread of his smile. His lips always kicked up a bit higher on one side than the other and lent him a boyish charm she’d found hard to resist since the first time she’d seen him stroll into her mother’s diner.
She kissed his fingertips. “Wake up, Chance. Please wake up.”
What if the doctor was wrong? What if Chance didn’t come back? What if he stayed in this coma? What if he couldn’t remember her? What if he died? Taryn scrunched her eyes closed and swallowed hard. One hand went to her belly and cradled the life growing there. Could she raise this baby alone? The process of single parenting had turned her mother bitter and angry. Was that what she had to look forward to?
No, she wouldn’t think about it. Chance would recover. He had to. She would accept no other alternative. She’d waited seven years to start this family; she wasn’t going to have her dream taken away from her before it materialized.
“Mrs. Conover?”
The voice startled Taryn out of the loop of her worries. She turned to see a man standing at the door. “Could I speak with you for a few minutes?”
She glanced from Chance to the man and back. “I—I…”
He took the extra straight chair along the wall and dragged it next to her. “I’m Dr. Benton, the staff psychiatrist. I’d like to go over your husband’s chart with you.”
“Psychiatrist?” She frowned. Dr. Benton had a compact body under a lab coat that somehow reminded her of a cowboy’s duster, lank pale red hair that needed a cut, and green eyes that bugged out as if he’d read too many books in less than ideal light. He looked all wrong. A psychiatrist should have a calm, reassuring presence, but this man seemed to have a frenetic energy dancing all around him. “Why does Chance need a psychiatrist?”
“Dr. Gregory, the doctor who saw your husband in the emergency room, believes that the patient’s amnesia is not of a physiological nature.”
Taryn swiveled her body away from Chance, but still held on to his hand. “But Dr. Gregory said the coma was temporary. That it was helping him heal.”
Dr. Benton flipped a page on the chart he was carrying and flicked two fingers on the paper. “Head wounds often look worse than they are because they bleed so profusely. But other than the small laceration on his forehead, there seems to be nothing physically wrong with him.”
“But he’s in a coma. The knock must have been harder than you think. Chance is strong and healthy. He wouldn’t turn into a weakling so easily.”
Dr. Benton tried to look sympathetic, but the twist of his features looked more patronizing than concerned. “There’s no sign of trauma. The X rays, the MRI all came back negative. There’s nothing physically wrong with your husband.”
She shot up, placing herself between the doctor and Chance. “Other than the fact that he almost drowned and now he’s in a coma! What exactly are you trying to tell me?”
“When your husband came to in the emergency room, he couldn’t remember who he was, where he was, what happened to him.”
Taryn’s heart thudded heavily once in her chest. She hadn’t wanted to believe Dr. Gregory when he’d mentioned Chance’s probable amnesia. He couldn’t forget her. She’d prove that to everyone once Chance woke up. He wouldn’t forget the love they had; it was too strong. She squeezed her nape as she ordered her thoughts. “But that’s normal. He was in an accident. He’ll remember soon. Dr. Gregory said so.”
Dr. Benton eagerly bent over the chart. “In his paperwork, it’s noted that he suffered a previous episode of traumatic amnesia.”
Oh no, God, no. Her pulse jagged fast and hard. She didn’t like where this was heading at all. Could Chance have forgotten everything again? How was that possible after all they’d shared? Her legs felt shaky. She sat. “Fifteen years ago.”
Dr. Benton licked his lips, his eyes bugged out even more, and he seemed to savor what was coming next. “I believe your husband is suffering through a second episode of traumatic amnesia brought about by the return of a state-dependent memory.”
“You lost me.”
“The original trauma took place fifteen years ago,” he explained slowly as if she were dim-witted. He turned the chart at an angle and pointed. “It says here that his body was discovered not far from where today’s accident happened.”
“Yes, I know.”
A restless energy overtook Dr. Benton as he pointed to a second entry. “The time of the year is the same. Late May for the first incident. Early June for this one.”
“Yes, but what does one have to do with the other? The incident happened fifteen years ago.”
He scooted to the edge of his chair and leaned forward. “Traumatic events elicit major physiological responses in the body. Memories of the event are biochemically ‘attached’ to the traumatic physiological state and that produces a state-dependent memory.”
“Please, Dr. Benton—”
He held a hand up and rushed on. “I believe that something about the conditions today—something he heard or saw or smelled—brought back the memory he forgot fifteen years ago and it threw him back into that world. Those cues were a match to the conditions that existed fifteen years ago at the time of his trauma and brought back the lost memory. He didn’t just remember what happened, he relived it.”
“You’re saying that because he remembered what he forgot, now he’s forgotten again.”
“Exactly!”
“But why would that cause him to forget who he is now?”
He rubbed his hands together as if he were contemplating digging into a juicy steak. “Now that’s the mystery I’d like to explore. The brain and how it works is so fascinating.”
“I’m not going to let him be a guinea pig—”
“No, no.” He patted her knee. “I’d like a chance to help him recover all his memory.”
“You could do that?” A flicker of hope sprang up.
“Yes. I know I could. I believe your husband repressed his memories after suffering some extreme stress fifteen years ago. The way he’s dealt with his life since then is actually quite remarkable. In all my years, I’ve never seen such a good case for memory retrieval—”
He stopped as if catching himself about to head into a detour, cleared his throat, then went on. “Amnesia is a coping mechanism—a symptom of post-traumatic stress disorder. I would forward a guess that your husband is a very controlled man.”
He seemed to be holding his breath as he paused and waited for her confirmation.
“Yes.” Chance kept everything neat and tidy. She’d often thought it was because he was afraid to lose any more of himself. As if by keeping his things in order, he could keep himself in order, too. Sometimes, when he didn’t know she was watching him, she could see his internal chaos reflected in his eyes, in the painful gathering of his eyebrows. And he’d been successful at his job because everyone knew that in the middle of turmoil and tempers Chance Conover could be counted on to keep a cool head and bring back balance. No one ever seemed to notice the river of unrest just below the surface.
“He never talks about what happened then,” she said, feeling hurt once again that he’d never trusted her with that part of himself.
“Avoidance is another sign of PTSD,” Dr. Benton said. “But time alone won’t heal him.”
“He was doing fine….” Wasn’t he? Her mind scrolled back through their time together. She saw it then, the distance, that slight space he kept between himself and everything—even her. Her hand tightened against Chance’s, afraid to let him go.
“Internally, things weren’t in order,” Dr. Benton continued. A slightly manic light gleamed in his eyes, as if her husband’s troubles were a treasure to be prospected. “Trauma is stored in the brain’s limbic system, which processes emotions and sensations. Just because he’s repressed the memories doesn’t mean they aren’t there and affecting him. What I’d like to do is take him through the steps of recovering those memories and see him through the healing process.”
Dr. Benton was practically panting as he waited for her answer.
A headache thrummed at her temples. He was going too fast and not giving her enough facts to make a good judgment. What was best for Chance? “How will you do that?”
He smiled. “There are several techniques we could choose from—hypnotism, guided imagery, dream work, sodium amytal.”
“Truth serum! You’d drug him?”
“It’s a very safe technique,” Dr. Benton assured her, then rushed on. “Once he’s retrieved his past, I’ll show him how to put these memories in the context of other psychological symptoms, how to live with the feelings the retrieval is bringing back, how to deal with cognitive distortions.”
“Cognitive distortions?” This was all too much.
Dr. Benton seemed annoyed at the interruption, but with quick motions of his hands explained, “There are two forms of memory. Explicit memory is the ability to consciously recall facts or events. Implicit memories are behavioral knowledge of an experience without conscious recall. As an example you can read, but probably can’t remember how you learned the skill.”
“So you’re saying even though he might not remember who he is, he’ll remember skills he’s learned.”
“Precisely. At first he may be flooded with implicit sensorimotor memory. He’ll get the picture or the feelings or the terror the memories bring back, but not the explicit memories that could ground or explain the meaning of the sensations or images. He’ll need someone to guide him through the process of re-creating the entire scene in order to deal with what happened to him and get on with his life.”
Taryn frowned and shook her head. He made it sound so easy. Still, something kept her from agreeing readily. “Chance isn’t one to rely on anybody. I doubt you’d get him to agree to therapy of any kind.”
The doctor leaned so far forward she feared he would slip right out of his chair. “At the moment your husband is unable to make decisions for himself. You could have him admitted. Once the therapy starts, I assure you, he’ll be thankful for your foresight.”
“Chance likes to make his own decisions.”
“That’s understandable, but right now he’s not in a position to make an informed judgment. Therapy is his best option for complete recovery.”
“I don’t know—”
“No.”
The word came strong and sure from behind her. Taryn whirled and could hardly contain her joy at the sight of her husband’s open eyes.
“Chance!” She squealed and threw herself at him, clasping him into a hard hug. “I knew you’d come back. I knew you’d be all right.”
The fact that Chance had turned his head away from hers, that he was holding himself tight and stiff as if her touch was something alien took a moment to register. “Chance?”
The look in his eyes was cool and withdrawn and looked as impenetrable as concertina wire on a prison fence.
“Chance?”
Wanting to hang on to him in any way possible, she reached for his hand. He pulled it free of her grasp and shoved it beneath the sheet.
“Get out. Both of you. Leave me alone.”
“Chance?” He wasn’t making sense. He wasn’t acting like himself. “I’m here for you.”
“Out!”
His whole body shook, and Taryn couldn’t say whether it was from fear or cold or anger, only that his unseemly behavior scared her stiff. This wasn’t the Chance she knew and loved.
Dr. Benton tugged at her elbow. “Mrs. Conover, perhaps—”
“No.” She ripped her arm out of Dr. Benton’s grasp and took Chance’s face between her hands. Short-cropped bristly black hair, slightly crooked nose, sharp cheeks, kissable lips and all, this was the face of the man she loved. He was still there inside that body—had to be—and she was going to find him. “Look at me, Chance. Dammit, I said look at me!”
His dark gaze met hers, cold and hard. Like smoke in the night, specters of torment arose behind the surface. Even as she looked, the man she loved was disappearing inside those tortured shadows.
“Chance.”
He didn’t know her. He didn’t remember their life together. He didn’t recall the love that fused their souls, making them one. Right before her eyes, he was turning into a remote stranger. The pain inside her chest was nearly unbearable.
“I won’t let you forget, Chance.” She cursed her croaky voice, her sniffles, her tears. “I’m your wife. I love you. I won’t let you forget who I am, what we had together. We’ve been through too much for you to just throw it all away. Do you hear me?”
The machinery monitoring his pulse, his heartbeat jumped to life. The vein at his neck throbbed hard and fast. Panic churned in his eyes.
He shoved her away and turned his head. She stumbled backward. Both her hands covered her mouth, holding back her sobs. If he’d taken out his service weapon and shot her on the spot, he couldn’t have shocked her more than he had at this moment. Never had Chance lifted a hand to her—to anyone—in anger.
He doesn’t know who he is, she reminded herself. He’s not hurting you on purpose. He’s confused. He’s scared. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.
“Mrs. Conover,” Dr. Benton said, “it’s best you leave now.”
“No. I have to stay.” She wouldn’t let him forget. She’d be here, a constant reminder of his past. He’d have to remember.
The machinery’s beeps got quicker, the neon lines sharper.
“He needs his rest,” Dr. Benton insisted.
“He needs me.” Just as she needed him. Just as their baby needed them both.
The machinery beeped faster. The lines jagged erratically. Chance grabbed at the wires connecting him to the monitoring equipment.
“If you don’t leave, I’ll have to call security.”
“He’s my husband.”
Dr. Benton’s grip was unrelenting as he pushed her toward the door. “He’s our patient and his welfare is our number one priority.”
Two nurses came in. One plunged something into Chance’s IV line as the other pinned him down. A rasp between anger and fear grated from his throat.
“Chance!” She reached for him, but Dr. Benton blocked her way. Tears streamed down her cheeks as Chance’s face contorted into a mask of sheer terror. “Chance!”
“He needs help, Mrs. Conover,” Dr. Benton said, shaking her slightly to get her attention. “Now would be an excellent time to have me admit him to my ward.”
Chance’s eyes closed. Slowly the beeps and lines on the machinery calmed. And once again, he looked no more than a corpse.
“Chance,” she whispered, half in prayer, half in entreaty.
“With therapy,” Dr. Benton insisted, “I can bring your husband back. Sign the transfer.”
“I have to stay with him.”
“To heal, to come back to you, he needs therapy.”
“He needs me.” Not these white-coated people who didn’t care about him.
“He’s going to be sleeping for a while now, Mrs. Conover,” Dr. Benton said. “Why don’t you go home and get some rest? I’ll put my therapy proposal together and we can go over it tomorrow.”
“I want to stay.”
“That’s not in his best interest right now.” Dr. Benton nodded to one of the nurses. “Call security.”
Soon two uniformed guards were leading her against her will to the elevator.
Angus, who’d been in the waiting room, joined her. “What’s going on?”
With his graying brown hair, his patrician features just now starting to droop with age and his ever-present camel-colored blazer and matching Stetson, he was a welcome sight. His questioning glance searched the guards’ faces, then hers. “You all right?”
“No,” she managed to choke out. She wouldn’t be until Chance came back to her. “They’re making me go home.”
Angus wrapped one of his strong arms around her shoulders. “Chance probably needs his rest, sweetheart.”
“He doesn’t know who I am.” She leaned into Angus’s barrel chest and the tears flowed harder, numbing her to anything but her own loss.
“I’ll take you home, sweetheart.”
She could not have said how she got home. Seeing the house all dark and empty was another blow that added a layer of numbness. Angus offered to sit with her. She refused. Like a robot on automatic, she went straight to the bedroom she shared with Chance. Still dressed in the shorts and T-shirt she’d put on after her shower, she slid into bed. She drew the sheet over her head, curled up knees to chin and withdrew into the hard shell she’d escaped to so often as a little girl.
She’d thought having Chance die would be the absolute worst thing that could happen to her. She’d been wrong. Having him alive and looking at her as if she was nothing but a stranger was a thousand times worse.
But as she spent a sleepless night in the dark, alone in her bed, she knew she could not give up. For her baby’s sake, she couldn’t let go of what had taken her so long to earn.
She’d help him, just as he’d helped her find her way home again ten years ago. “Together, we’ll find you again.”
CHANCE CAME TO in a sweat, breath all but choked out of him and coming short and sharp as if he’d been running for hours. His head pounded to a frantic beat. His skin crawled with the need to keep bolting. He tried to blink away the horror flashing behind his lids, but with each flicker, the red haze spread, the blond hair writhed, the hands choked.
Grasping the sheets on the side of the bed into fists, he forced his eyes to stay open until he saw nothing but the white ceiling. And as his breath slowed, as the beating of his heart moderated, he became aware of the anger roiling through him like Class VI rapids. All of his thoughts converged to one overwhelming desire—escape.