Okay peoples, from my feedback I think I've gotten you all a little tense. I hope by now that my writing skills have made you willing to stick with me because we're going to be switching gears on the mood and I wanted to give you guys a heads up. What will follow is the type of writing I've been "known" for and has gotten enough positive recommendation that I'd like to keep with it. So I hope you guys enjoy, but feel free to throw tomatoes...
Last Time
Regardless of *his* future plans, he was now burdened with the responsibility of arranging Ms. Lane’s future. But then he’d already reconciled himself to this conclusion. The matter at this point was simply the how and the where. Plunging back into the darkened channels of her mind, he set about to recreating someone a little less intrepid.
NOW...
Waking up was turning out to be a lot more tiring than she expected. First there was that whole conscious thought business. Seriously, who could think when there was a big dark mass sitting in the place where one’s brain was supposed to be? But the mass was insubstantial, merely a thick cloud that must be pushed through. She didn’t know why she knew this, only that she must or she wouldn’t have thought to try.
Then again, maybe it wasn’t that she had *thought* to try, but she’d been told to try. There did seem to be an encouraging murmur rumbling through her mind. The direction was gentle but insistent and very compelling. This was really what made her want to wake up; to see where that encouraging murmur was coming from. So she kept trying, struggling through the thick cloud until the darkness faded into a light gray and the sensation of heaviness passed into something closer to a fluttering sensation.
She began to realize she was attempting to open her eyes and this worried her slightly because she had the impression that there was a bright light on the other side of her closed eyelids. If the light was very bright, opening her eyes might hurt, considering all the time she’d spent with them closed. Or at least, there seemed to be a long passage of time since they’d been open. Anyway, the idea of unveiling her latent eyesight to bright light was discouraging and she almost decided that the effort would not be worth the pain.
Even with that compelling murmur to discover, she faltered from the initial experience of opening her eyes, choosing to move her hands instead, thinking she might be able to bring them up to shade her eyes for when she did decide to open them. This turned out to be even more difficult as her hands were immersed in a thick heavy gel, or at least they felt that way. Just getting her fingers to twitch took more effort than she really wanted to put into the motion. She soon discovered that when she managed to move one hand, her fingers met with the radiating warmth of another touch. That warmth surrounded her hand, entwined with her fingers.
“Wake up, honey.”
The words sounded muffled, remote, but with the movement of those large fingers against the back of her hand she deduced they were spoken nearby, by the person who held her hand.
See? This whole thinking thing wasn’t that difficult. She just had to get back into the knack.
Now she had to figure out who would be holding her hand and calling her, “honey”. Her refusal to open her eyes just yet meant she had to think about this, get those synapses really cranked up and firing. On that note she guessed that the person with her had to be a guy, for not that many ladies would have hands as large, brawny, emitting a strength as well as warmth, even though the grip was gentle.
So she was definitely in the presence of a man. Ha! Now her thinking processes were really kicking into gear. What man though? Still reluctant to try that eye opening business, she instead began searching her memory banks for a particularly familiar guy, but that heavy darkness in her head was still an issue. She had to struggle through the haze of absent memory, but as she continued to concentrate, a face came to mind. A very manly face, with an awesome, wicked smile, mischievous twinkling blue eyes, and shoulder-length silky light brown hair…no, no, no! That was Mel Gibson! And Mel Gibson would not be holding her hand, telling her to wake up.
Unless…maybe she knew Mel personally? If, in fact, she was someone familiar with him…possibly, someone close to him, he could very easily be here, watching over her, holding her hand for encouragement...
So who was *she* then?
Ouch! That one hurt, because she really wasn’t certain. She knew she was a “she”, because she felt like a “she”; all the right parts in all the right places. Plus there was this major attraction to Mel Gibson. That made her pretty certain she was female.
Searching around in her mind’s eye, she began to get an image of what she presumed to be herself, looking back at her through a mental mirror. Short brown hair, almost pixie-like in style, exotic brown eyes with an intelligent glint... yeah, definitely intelligent, above some nicely placed cheekbones and all this with a creamy peach complexion, hey, and nice jawline, very soft angles there. She was looking pretty good. A very viable option for Mel. So who *was* she?
Her brow furrowed on this question and she knew it did, because her head hurt like a sonuvabitch when she made the motion, and she heard herself make a noise that reflected the pain she felt.
“Wanda? Honey?”
That voice didn’t sound Australian. Then again, Mel didn’t have such a pronounced accent. She should double check just in case, so she decided to make her companion speak again, even though he’d called her “Wanda”. She didn’t feel like a “Wanda” but if the person beside her *was* Mel, she’d be anybody he wanted.
She drew in a deep breath and allowed her throat some clearing time before parting her lips. The flaky, chapped feel of them made her nervous, made her worry that she might not sound right if they were so dry. She swallowed carefully and then pulled her bottom lip between her teeth to wet the flesh with her tongue. The male grip on her hand tightened slightly, and she was so focused on sensations at the moment, the feeling was easy to catch. She squeezed back in return, as much as her weakened muscles would allow while she gave her top lip some of the same treatment. Confident her lips wouldn’t stick together, she finally figured out the way her throat would have to work if she wanted to speak.
“Mel?” she rasped out.
“Huh?”
Not Mel… or maybe she just needed to say it louder. And open her eyes finally, just to see if she was even close. Scrunching her lids before allowing them to flutter apart she carefully turned her widening gaze as she spoke, looking for the face to match up with the name.
“Mel?” she asked louder as the blurred image came into view.
Nope…not Mel. Dang. She couldn’t get that lucky, could she? She tried looking harder in a vain attempt to superimpose Mel’s visage over the one of the man looking over her, but nothing doing. She gave up on a sigh and surrendered her vision to the reality, but she couldn’t help comparing…
For starters this guy had dark hair. Mahogany dark, closed-cropped, but gleaming like silk in the fuller areas. He sported a rugged goatee, which lent him an outdoorsy quality, something a little less than civilized, but his eyes drew her interest past that observation. The light, coffee brown eyes that looked so worried…so concerned really seemed to touch inside her. She’d seen those eyes before.
But if so, then who was *he*? She began scanning through her memories again as she gazed at him, trying to match that face with a name…ah, ahha! There he was! Not his name, but his image, in a wonderful little backdrop of…what was that large structure behind him? The Eiffel Tower, oooo, Paris! And he was smiling, a really nice smile, come to think of it, her heart was fluttering even now! And he was holding her hand up to his cheek, kissing that delicate little bump on her wrist... very sweet.
She felt the corners of her lips curve upward as she looked at him and saw him respond in kind. Oh, yes, very nice. She still wasn’t sure about his name, though. How could he be holding her hand in Paris without a name? She tried that thought process stuff again, her brow sliding back into the furrow of her earlier attempt and was re-introduced to the pain that had accompanied the expression the first time she tried it. His smile went away and his grip on her hand loosened.
“I’m going to get the doctor,” he informed her.
She tried to stay awake, but her weary mind had other ideas. She faded back into that light fog for another undetermined amount of time. Low murmurs buzzed around in her ears during this period and she was reacquainted with the familiar contact of her hand in his. That vision of the man with soft brown eyes smiling at her replayed over and over in her head, lulling her into the idea that she was very familiar with this person, for really she had nothing else to base her memories on regardless of how she searched. Where she was immediately uncomfortable at her lack of recollection, she sought out the one thing in her mind that she recognized.
The next time she opened her eyes, hopeful of seeing him, he wasn’t there. That unnerved her as she was certain he’d been holding her hand again only a second ago. Maybe he was nearby. She turned her head carefully from side to side, just double checking her visual range, but also confirming that she was indeed alone in some sort of medical care facility, white walls, automatic bed, sparse furniture…
Her anxiety meter began to flicker to life and she cleared her throat to call out to her guardian. Except she suddenly remembered that she didn’t know his name. The only name that came to mind was “Mel” and she’d already learned that wasn’t her guy.
Hmmph; *her* guy. She hadn’t had any certainty of that either, unless she counted her memory of the fancy parisian backdrop on the same level of certainty as the Buffalo Bills finally winning a Superbowl. She winced at that contemplation, though she was fairly pleased that she remembered a prominent football team. Now if only she could put a name to her absent brown-eyed guardian who wasn’t doing his job …
She shouted this last thought in her head, as if her anxiety could be depleted through silent ranting, but the exercise only sent a sharp bolt of pain through her beleaguered brain. Her hitching breath sounded weak and childish in her ears and she gritted her teeth together in denial. Crying wasn’t going to cut it either, regardless of how her eyes burned; she was going to buck up and come to terms with her situation…as soon as she found out what it was.
The whole thing would be lots easier if Brown-Eyes were here, she told herself. He, at least, called her by a name, so he should know something about her. But then she hadn’t quite settled with the name that *he* called her.
Wanda. Hmmmm, Wanda…Waaaandaaa…
She closed her eyes as she focused on the name for a moment, trying to wrap her mind around it, attempting to find an empty slot where it fit, but she had this anxious suspicion that she’d be forcing a jigsaw piece into the wrong puzzle. The name had a night club quality to it, just a little more dazzling than she felt she could muster, and left her feeling unraveled.
Of course “Wanda” alone might be inadequate, but a proper surname might fill it out more, giving the flighty moniker an anchor of sorts.
Gibson, she immediately ventured, only to snort ruefully at her wishful thinking. Smith, Jones, Adams, White, Johnson, Anderson, Olsen, Rumple-freakin-stiltskin! She winced again at the spike of pain brought on by her intense concentration and lifted her hand to rub her temple. That hand was caught up in a now familiar grip, and she opened to eyes to verify that Brown-Eyes had returned.
His face was taut, the grim line of his lips causing her anxiety to roll up another notch. She wondered for a moment if he’d heard something bad about her condition. Gathering her courage she spoke the first thought that came to her.
“Am I dying?” she queried in a frightened whisper.
His expression relaxed into one of indulgent disbelief. “No,” he growled out derisively, “you’re not dying. What gave you that silly idea?”
“You were looking so worried, when you came in,” she explained, trying to mask her own distress.
“Well, yeah,” he agreed gently, “my girl’s in the hospital and looking like she’s hurting when I come in. I guess I would be worried.”
That possessive phrase struck her as overbearing and protective all at once. But then she’d just been thinking of him as “her guy” only moments ago even though she had barely a flicker of recognition to back that up. She supposed the shoe was on the other foot now. Still, he was holding her hand in his left hand, and she didn’t see any sign of a ring. She lifted her own left hand to her view and didn’t have any evidence of permanence there either.
“You looking for this?” He interrupted her contemplation by digging into his shirt collar and pulling up a gold necklace. There was a diamond ring hanging near his fingers where they held the chain. “I was worried about leaving you alone in the hospital with this on,” he informed her in a conspiratorial whisper. “Didn’t care to find out it had become ‘lost’ .” He quote-marked that word with his free hand.
She hadn’t heard a thing he’d said though; her eyes and mind were totally occupied with the trinket next to his fingers.
That’s--that’s an engagement ring, she mentally stammered. The same mental faculties that could place her in the personal circle of Mel Gibson suddenly had a hard time convincing her that she might be engaged, even with sparkly evidence. Brown-eyes might be a cutie, but she still didn’t recognize him.
She realized she’d eventually have to confess this fact, though it might hurt his feelings. Besides, the sooner her lack of recollection was acknowledged the sooner she might be helped to recover. She was in a hospital after all; weren’t hospitals notorious for curing people?
Might as well just come out with it, she decided, inhaling deeply to do just that.
“Miss Kent?”
An unfamiliar voice from the room entrance arrested her speech momentarily. She pulled her gaze away from Brown-eyes to fall upon the person she assumed to be her physician, considering the lab coat and clipboard in his hands. She gave herself another mental pat on the back for that conclusion.
He was approaching them with a relieved smile directed at her. “It’s good to see you back on this side of the rainbow,” he informed her as he moved around to the open side of her bed, raising the top half of her bed to put her at a more upright position. He ignored her quizzical look at his remark as he took note of her pulse rate and flashed a light into her eyes. The action caused her to wince and his expression turned a bit more serious. “Bright light still causing you problems?” he asked.
“I guess, I mean, it did just then,” she replied, “I don’t remembering it happening before.”
“I wish we had a past medical history on you, Miss Kent. That might give us a better indication to the causes of your seizures and blackouts.”
Miss Kent? Seizures? Blackouts? What the hell is wrong with me?!
He noticed her wide-eyed gaze and looked over at Brown-eyes as if asking him for back up.
“This has been a periodic thing since I’ve known you, Wanda.” Brown-eyes corroborated. “You’re having trouble remembering right now, right?”
She gave him an anxious nod, about the only thing she could come up with at the moment.
“From what you’ve told me, this has happened before. We were together the last time and from my experience you’re usually better in a couple of days.” His big hand squeezed hers reassuringly. “I’m just glad we’re close to home this time.”
Sudden comprehension dawned on her as she replayed the one memory that was so prominent in her mind. “We were in Paris last time.”
His answering smile reflected a relief and joy that were hard not to succumb to. Even the physician got caught up in the moment, backing off indulgently with his clipboard, his sheepish gaze wandering instead to the one framed print in the whole room. The patient however restrained herself enough to remember her present situation and the troubling fact that she had nothing other than one fuzzy recollection to base her past on. While a strong part of her was pressing her to just go with the flow and let the experts help, a niggling propensity to get to the bottom of her condition began to take hold. For some reason, her inclination made more sense.
Very prudently, she decided to start from the beginning. She’d find out what she could right now and see where it took her. If Brown-eyes was familiar with this situation, then he would expect it.
“My name is Wanda Kent,” she stated, though her eyes looked to her guardian for reassurance and his nod did just that. Now for the hard question, “and your name is…” She prompted.
She could tell her lack of recall upset him slightly, but he covered his dismay well. “Kal,” he murmured, “Kal Eldritch.”
The physician cleared his throat nervously, not to interrupt them, but to indicate that he was leaving with an unintelligible mumble followed up by an indirect wave of his clipboard. Wanda and Kal followed his departure with their eyes only to drop their gazes to the sheets across her lap as they came back to each other.
“So this is a regular thing, huh?” she murmured as she kept her eyes riveted to where his fingers were entwined with hers.
“You’ve only done this once before since we’ve been together,” he confessed, “We’ve been traveling, and you haven’t kept up with your medication.”
“Medication,” she echoed, “I guess I forget sometimes.” Her remark wasn’t meant to be flippant, but she immediately realized the irony. The corners of her mouth turned up slightly and she looked up at him from under her lashes to see if he’d caught it. His mirrored expression comforted her and she had the feeling this might be an inside joke between them. That idea, more than anything, satisfied her that they could very easily be a couple.
Still, she couldn’t help but consider the burden this must place on him. “Do you know what you’re getting into with this, Kal?” she queried earnestly. “I mean, apparently, we’re engaged. If we’re going to be married, I can’t help but wonder if you’re prepared to deal with this repeatedly.” She’d seen his hurt when she didn’t remember his name and was reluctant to do that to him on a regular basis.
His hand came up to gently cup her cheek, his fingertips insinuating themselves against the sensitive flesh behind her ear while his thumb passed in a whispering stroke beneath her bottom lip. She was amazed at the intense jolt that zipped through her from the slight caress.
“I knew everything I needed to know about you the first time I touched you,” he told her as the slight pressure of his fingers rubbing beneath her hairline sent a shiver down her spine. “Nothing as trivial as a memory lapse is going to change what I feel about you.”
The warmth and familiarity of his voice flowed over her with the same comfort of a hot bath, and she felt herself on the verge of sinking in, being enveloped in safety, ready to just surrender herself utterly into his care. The feeling made complete sense. She’d had the impression that he was a guardian of sorts from the first moment she’d sensed his protective presence near her. He had a watchful air about him, a formidable demeanor that emitted security and strength. Of course she should trust him completely. They were engaged, and he would take care of her….
<…not again…can’t let this happen again…>
A subconscious impulse that arose from a source she couldn’t identify snatched her hand up to grasp his wrist. With a little bit of exertion she was able to bring that hand back down to the entwined grip they’d shared just a moment ago. She had to blink a couple of times to get her focus back and then she needed a couple of breaths to steady her respiration as well, but her brain had processed his statement.
His trite assessment of her condition roused an inexplicable need in her to argue. “This--this memory lapse,” she forced the words through a dry throat, “it’s not trivial to me.” She paused as she took in his slightly bewildered expression, but dismissed it to press her point. “I have this…compulsion to remember ‘me’…to be satisfied. I want to remember ‘us’ too.”
The strained silence that followed, as he seemed to digest her declaration, worried her. Wouldn’t he want that too?
That she should question his devotion also made her uneasy and seeking to distract her agitation she looked around to her bedside table, her eyes catching the condensation-beaded surface of the plastic hospital carafe. She was about to reach for the container, planning to pour herself a drink, but Brown-eyes…Kal, had already let go of her hand to do exactly that. He didn’t try to meet her gaze as he offered her the cup and in fact made as if to leave once she’d taken the small tumbler/lid combo from him.
“I’ll need to get your things and see how much longer you have to stay here, now that you’re…recovering,” he mumbled his explanation as he moved toward the door. “The doctor will probably…he’ll probably be able to tell you more…and then I’ll--I’ll be back.”
She watched him disappear around the corner, her stomach twisting anxiously at the idea of being alone in her current state. Why was he running off when she was so scared? If he knew her as he claimed, wouldn’t he know that she felt vulnerable right now, that she needed someone to reassure her? Was her small expression of defiance some sort of sore point in their relationship? The idea caused her brow to curl angrily as she wondered what kind of jerk would leave just as she was getting a grasp on her identity.
He said he’d be back, a small, defensive voice in her head reminded her.
And he’d looked at her when he’d promised to come back. At this point that was the only thing about him she was certain of and she couldn’t help but wonder if that was actually a good thing.
TBC...
