Archetype (10 page)

I
woke to a deep, sinking warmth. It came from the sun peeking through the slatted windows but also from the heat of skin pressed against my back. Deep and even breaths told me he still slept, spooning behind me in the same way we’d fallen asleep.

Near my head, his hand lay over mine. It twitched once. I removed my hand and covered his, letting my thumb trace over the luckenbooth.

I begged him not to do it. It wasn’t necessary for him to brand himself just to prove his love for me.

“No one will take you seriously,” I’d warned.

“No one has to know. I’ll wear Plasti-skin over it.”

I’d laughed at him. What an absurd annoyance for him to go through. “Every day?”

He waved a hand. “It won’t be every day. Just when I have to meet with clients.”

“So every day.”

“I’m doing it. The only way you’re changing my mind is if you refuse to marry me.”

“I won’t do that.”

“Then it’s settled.”

I hadn’t been able to tell him the brand meant something different for me. I’d grown up thinking of the linked hearts as a ball and chain to slavery. This wasn’t what I wanted for us, but he seemed determined to turn this horrible memory into something special.

Now, looking at the sign of something I’d grown to despise on his hand, I realized he was right. He was mine, just as I was his. The two of us linked.

Forever.

 • • • 

I start awake and bolt upright in the dark room. No light comes through the windows, which do not have curtains, let alone blinds. Only the moon’s glowing reflection off the snow gives me a sense of time. A sense of where I am.

My heart drives in my chest and my quickened breath is difficult to tame. I am beginning to think of these dreams as nightmares because each one only adds to my confusion. Why do I dream of this woman’s life?

I study my hand to be sure there is no brand, that I have not dreamed this, too. It is the only proof that these dreams are not memories. That I am Emma Burke. That I am where I belong.

The bed shifts and dips beside me. Declan runs a hand over my bare shoulder. “Bad dream?”

“Yes.” The word comes out of my mouth before I have a chance to stop it. “I mean, no.”

“You don’t have to lie, Emma. I’m not going to think you’re having a setback because you have an honest-to-God nightmare.”

I peer over my shoulder. “It was not a nightmare. I promise. Just . . . uncomfortable.”

“In what way?”

“It does not matter.” I lie down and stare up at the shadowed ceiling. “It was only a dream.”

He scoops an arm under me and curls me into him until I rest on his shoulder. My hand lies over his chest and his heart thumps steadily against my palm.

“You’re shivering,” he says and pulls up the comforter.

Goose bumps rise on my arm as if on command. “I am a little cold.”

“House control, increase heat two degrees,” he says into the room. A tiny
click
sounds before an almost imperceptible
whoosh
of air in the ventilation.

“Thank you, but will you be too hot?”

“I can sleep outside the covers if I have to.” He slides my hair back and kisses my forehead. “Go back to sleep.”

“Declan?”

“Hm?”

“Why do I have to go back to the hospital?”

The air in his chest stills and he does not speak for a long time. “Arthur wants to make sure you adjust okay. It won’t be long now.”

I push up on my elbow and watch my hand moving over his chest to avoid his eyes. “I am adjusting. The first day was difficult, but I did okay tonight. I am comfortable here. I am comfortable with you.”

“Is this about Ruby?”

This surprises me and I give him my full attention, bringing my hand to a complete stop. He lifts a hand to tuck my hair back.

“No,” I tell him. “Ruby does not understand things. I was not careful, so what happened was my fault. I should never have left my belongings in the lounge.”

A small smile plays on his lips. “You’re really good with her, you know?”

“She is like me. I understand her.”

He nods. “I’ll talk to Arthur. Maybe we can shorten your days.”

This is enough and I smile. “Really?”

He kisses me. “Really.”

 • • • 

“Declan is happy to have you home,” Dr. Travista says. “The week has gone by rather quickly, with no problems.”

I stand with folded arms near the window, looking out at the melting snow. Living in Declan’s home makes this easier. “It gets easier every day, and Declan works hard to make it so. He is very kind and patient with me.”

“He is much like his mother in that respect.”

I turn, careful to hide my surprise. This is the first I am hearing of parents. “His mother? Did you know her?”

He smiles. “I’ve worked for the Burkes my entire career. His father, Andrew, hired me right out of college. Andrew and Eliza are gone now.” He looks down at his lap and frowns. “Eight years now, I think.”

He uses the word “gone” and I cannot help but wonder if I will find them in a hospital room just as I did Jodi. I do not want to wait and find out, so I probe deeper. “Both? At the same time?”

“Oh no, of course not. No, Eliza died during her second pregnancy and Andrew had a heart attack.”

“How sad,” I say. “What about me? Do I have parents?” I doubt I do because I would have seen them. At least I think I would have. So much about this world confounds me.

“No.” He does not elaborate.

“Are they dead, too?”

He taps his screen a few times and reads something. “There is nothing here in your WTC record about your parents.”

I recognize the acronym from one of my earlier dreams with Toni. “WTC?”

“Women’s Training Center. Where all our young women are prepared for marriage.”

I bite the inside of my cheek and swallow the words “work camp.” He makes the WTC sound warm and fuzzy. Instead, I move back to the previous topic. “If there is no record of my parents, what does that mean?”

Dr. Travista considers me for a long moment. I know this look. It is the can-she-handle-the-truth look. I am tired of being coddled.

Finally, he says, “There is no official record of your birth, which means you come from West America.”

Land of the free,
She says, and I nearly jump in surprise. She has not spoken since before Declan and I made love. She was not happy with my decision, but I did not expect Her to disappear the way She had.

I turn my back on the doctor. “But they could be alive?”

“Unknown.”

What he means is that nobody crosses into the east without deadly consequences. This is a man’s land. Corporations with their eye on the prize: survival by any means necessary, but only if it makes a lot of money. They
took you
from your parents.

I school my face to hide my annoyance at Her outlandish accusations. “I will never know.”

“No,” he agrees. “Not likely.”

I turn to smile at the doctor even though my insides are empty of happiness. “It does not matter. I have Declan. We will have the family I never had.”

“Maybe you are already well on your way.”

I blink rapidly in surprise. “What?”

“You’re a fertile woman and you’ve been home for a week. According to your cycle, you’re ovulating.”

Heat floods my chest and flares up my neck. “You know my cycle?”

He waves a hand as if my personal business is no big deal. “Of course. I’m your doctor. Why don’t we run some tests and see? Imagine the look on Declan’s face if you could tell him he’s about to be a father.”

He stands to leave but I cannot bring my feet to move. Pregnant? I could be pregnant. I want to be sick when I should be thrilled. Why had I not thought of this possibility?

I believe I mentioned the word “mistake” recently,
She says.

Dr. Travista’s eyebrows pinch together. “Are you all right? You look very pale.”

I swallow. “I did not think . . .” I drop into the chair and turn away from him. “Is it really possible?”

He sits back down and leans forward. “What is it, Emma? I thought you wanted this. You told me you couldn’t wait to start a family.”

He is right. I did. But it had been a lie. “It is an easy enough thing to say. To feel. But faced with it . . . I do not think I am ready.”

He leans back into his chair and sighs. “Emma.” He says this with an air of condescension, and I ball my hand into a fist before I reach out and slap him.

“No.” I turn to face him. “I am only just getting used to being home. I need time.”

He slaps his hands to his knees and stands. “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice. Birth control is illegal. Abortion is illegal, with a very severe punishment. Emma, pregnancy is not a choice. I’m sorry.”

I follow him out but do not see anything but my future slipping out of my control.

I
manage to contain my joy until I am alone and show very little even then because of the cameras. I am not pregnant. I want to cry from relief. Dr. Travista will no doubt tell Declan, who will be sad, but for now, I cannot care. I can only be happy that I have been given a few more weeks if my cycle remains true to its course. I am told there is no further chance until next month.

Declan finds me painting in the lounge, and it is clear by the distant look in his eyes that he has already spoken to Dr. Travista.

“I am sorry,” I say. I stand from my stool and embrace him.

He kisses the top of my head. “For what, my love?”

“He told you about the test. I am sorry for the result. You must be disappointed.”

“No. There’s plenty of time.”

I step out of his arms and nod at the painting. “I am almost finished. Do you mind waiting?”

He sits and loosens his tie, squinting at my work. “This is very good, Emma.”

I tilt my head and examine the mountain scene I have painted. It is the view from the living room, but what I imagine spring to look like. I am tired of snow. “Do you think so?”

“Hm. I think this is already my favorite. We’ll have to hang this one at home.”

“Oh no, I do not think it is that good.” It is not that special.

“We can hang it over the fireplace.”

I lay my paintbrush down and rise from the stool. “Never mind. I am finished.”

He stands, still eyeing the painting. “You don’t like it?”

I shake my head. “It is not right. I will start over tomorrow.”

He takes my hand and we stroll toward the transporter room. “I have something to show you before we go home.”

I eye him with curiosity. He speaks as if he is pleased with himself. “Where?”

“It’s a surprise.”

We step into the teleporter tube and he says, “The port number is 037-5138-1.”

I commit this to memory with our home and the hospital port numbers. I cannot repeat it aloud because the spearmint fills the space and the outside room melts into an empty room with white walls. Not only the sidewalls but the ceiling and floor. Upon closer examination, I see the walls are not painted. The surface is a flat, screen-like material.

In the middle of the room is a lonely cluster of art supplies that includes an easel and a small table with paint, brushes, and jars for water. Am I supposed to paint here? In this bare room with nothing to look at?

I step out and spin slowly. “What is this place?”

He must see the confusion on my face, because he chuckles and gathers up a small computer tablet from the stool in front of the easel. He presses the screen a few times and the room comes to life.

“Holograms,” he says.

I spin again, gaping. I stand in a desert complete with mountainous sand dunes and the brightest sun I can imagine. The scene changes a moment later and I stand in a jungle with dark roots twisting around my feet. Dark green vines hang from slender trees and water drips from the largest leaves I have ever seen. A snake slithers on a branch above me and I yelp.

Declan runs a hand through a nearby tree trunk. “It isn’t real. You’re perfectly safe in the case of a jungle cat or some other predator appearing. I have no idea how extensive this is, but it’s the best money could buy.”

He shows me a huge closet full of canvases in every size imaginable, every paint supply I will ever need, smocks, and drop cloths. In the room next to it, a bathroom complete with a small shower—in case I have a paint catastrophe.

“Where is this room located? The hospital?” I ask. I do not think our house is big enough for this room.

Declan looks around at the mountains I have keyed into the tablet. I am happy to see there is no snow. “We’re in Richmond. I had this room put into the basement of my main office building. I have an office upstairs.”

I look around again. Other than the closet and bathroom, there are no other doors. “There is no exit.”

“I didn’t put one in.” He cannot meet my eyes. “It’s for your protection. A door will allow others in, and while I trust a lot of people, I don’t trust all of them. You and I are the only two with the port number. Arthur’s only stipulation is that you alert him when you’re leaving, just as you would if you decide to go home.”

I nod. “Yes, of course.”

He pulls out a phone that resembles my tablet computer but is far smaller. “And, obviously, I’ll know where you are if you leave the hospital.”

I do not need this reminder as if I did not hear the first twenty times he told me after he gave me the home port number, but I nod my understanding anyway. I will not complain when he has given me something so amazing.

“Declan, this is the most thoughtful gift.” The sting of tears threatens my eyes and I turn from him. I try to focus on the range of mountains and the wildflowers blooming in the clearing around me. A wind blows through, rustling the grass, but I feel nothing but still, warm air.

His arms come around me and his fingers tap over the menu on the tablet in my hand. “I made sure they put in this one in particular,” he whispers.

Now I stand on a beach. Seagulls dance over the water and waves crash audibly on the shore. It takes my breath away.

“One last thing,” he says. “If you approve, of course.”

I turn in his arms and he folds me in. “I approve.”

He laughs. “I haven’t told you anything yet.”

“It does not matter. I will do anything.”

“I was thinking,” he begins hesitantly, “you would like to have a show. Burke Enterprises owns an art gallery a few blocks from here. If you would like to do a series, we can have a show and maybe find some buyers. What do you think?”

I am nearly speechless. “I am not that good.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Actually, the gentleman running the studio was very impressed with your work and asked to see more.” He places a finger over my lips when I begin to speak. “I sent in a man he wouldn’t know, and he didn’t tell him you were my wife, so there was no bias.”

“I do not know what to say.” My heart pounds and I cannot tell if it is from excitement or fear. Maybe both.

“Think about it,” he says and shrugs. “There’s no time limit on the offer and you aren’t obligated. I just thought your work was too good to simply sit in the hospital, and by the speed with which you paint, I’m going to have to rent space just so the work has a home.” He laughs. “Which I will absolutely do if the need arises.”

I bite my lip because I am dangerously near tears. “What does Dr. Travista think?”

He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes. “Not that it matters, but I got the idea from Arthur. He said in passing that he would consider buying your work if he’d seen it somewhere, so I decided to look into it. When I told him what the gallery manager said, he agreed it would be a positive experience for you.”

“Will I have to be at the show?”

“You would prefer not to be?”

“I do not know. This is a lot to consider.”

He nods. “It is, so think about it. Enjoy your new studio and paint your heart out. If you decide to go through with it, say the word. I’ll get my people on it right away.”

I step away and look around the room. Behind Declan, the beach expands for what appears to be some distance and ends in a row of cliffs. It is really as if we stand on the shore.

With some hesitation, I shut it down and the room returns to nothing more than white walls. I blink several times to adjust, even though I knew what I would see. The difference is still shocking.

“You don’t have to come home right away,” Declan says. “I can always find something to do upstairs and we can order takeout later.”

I lay the tablet down on the stool in front of the easel. “No, we can go home. It has been a long day.”

Declan sweeps me off my feet and carries me into the teleporter. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

My entire body wakes in anticipation and I grin. “Something on your mind, Mr. Burke?”

“Always, Mrs. Burke. Always.”

His mouth slants over mine and I press into him as much as I can. When I get a moment to speak, I say, “We are going to need that takeout. Neither of us is leaving the bedroom tonight.”

 • • • 

His arm reached around and took the paintbrush from my hand. “This isn’t quite right.”

He mixed and added a new color to the brush and, in a few strokes, altered the color of my sunset.

I peered around the canvas and saw the change for myself. The sky beyond the ocean had turned a deeper shade of red and purple. “It didn’t look like that a few minutes ago.”

He chuckled and returned the brush to my hand. “A lot can change in a few minutes.”

I sent an elbow back into his gut, laughing. “And in a few more, it will be dark. What are your plans for my masterpiece then, huh?”

His hand tapped my hip and he said, “I just thought of something to add. Get up.”

I lifted and he slid under me, repositioning me on his lap so I faced the painting head-on. I held the board while he got a clean brush and then added the color I’d already mixed for the sand.

I watched him add shadow to one corner of the canvas, altering the shape of the sand. “What are you doing?”

“Signing it.”

“But it’s my painting.”

“I helped.”

I shook my head and watched his final strokes paint in linked hearts. They were so well hidden in the shadow of the sand dune that no one would ever see them unless they specifically looked for them.

He laid down the brush and kissed my shoulder. “There. What do you think? An original by Emma and—”

“Oh, no you don’t,” I said, laughing. “You aren’t claiming my work. An original by Emma and Emma alone.”

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I would buy this original by Emma and Emma alone. I particularly like the colors you chose for the sunset.”

 • • • 

I rise from the stool so fast it falls and knocks against the floor with its hologram of sand dunes and beach grass. Not only do I stare at an exact replica of the dream’s painting with its hidden luckenbooth, but Wade has been given a first name.

Mine.

Now I understand the longing and grief I suffer over Tucker. Unless the name is a coincidence—
God, let it be a coincidence
—these dreams are not dreams at all, but memories. And because I have been married to Declan for eight years, the entirety of my adult life, this can mean only one thing.

I have been unfaithful to my husband.