His Forbidden Bride: 50 Loving States, West Virginia (9 page)

I bare my teeth at him. “I don’t even have a Facebook page.”

My angry protest only seems to amuse him even more. “Then humor me, Doc. Answer these questions for me. What would you do if the both of us walked out of this apartment together? Would you claim me as your man? Let people know you were my lady?”

“Claim who?” I all but spit back in his face, hating him in that moment for forcing this conversation after the second longest day of my life. “You don’t have a name, or a social security number, or anything else that proves any of this is real. Most the time I don’t call you anything, because there is literally nothing to call you.”

He goes still above me, his face colder than I’ve ever seen it. “You think this ain’t real, Doc? You think we ain’t something just because I don’t have a name?”

He jerks into me, punctuating his next question with a dragging thrust. “Well, what is this you’re feeling between your legs? Who’s nameless dick are you about to come all over because you can’t help yourself? Can’t keep yourself from feeling for me the same shit I’m feeling for you? How many times I got to make you come before you admit no matter where you go, you fucking belong to me. How long’s that going take? How long?”

This time he doesn’t stop. This time the orgasm he’s been holding back from me rushes through me. Lighting up and then blowing out my entire nervous system, as the pent up pleasure finally has its release.

He gives me what I want. Which is why I really don’t understand what comes next. Me screaming filthy words as the orgasm threatens to shut down my central nervous system. Me babbling apologies for how I acted, for the insensitive things I said.

Then me moving beneath him. Begging him, “Please come, baby. I want to feel you. Please...”

His forehead rests down on mine. “No, Doc,” he says, continuing to hold back. “I love you so fucking much. I don’t want to come in you if you don’t feel the same. I can’t. I can’t…”

His words get loss in an aching groan. And I can tell holding back like this is hurting him. That he’s in pain. Because of me.

I don’t owe him my heart. Or my love. I’m leaving in less than a week. The truth is, it would be wiser to draw back, to try to wean ourselves off each other so it doesn’t hurt so bad when I get on the plane to California.

I think all of that. But out loud I say, “Baby, you know I love you. I’m a doctor and you were a patient, but you’re here with me in my bed. Obviously, I love you. It’s making me crazy!”

My words do what my body and pleas couldn’t. He comes hard above me, his whole body involuntarily shuddering as I murmur, “I’m sorry. So sorry for confusing you even more with the way I acted tonight. I love you. Love you so much, baby.”

S
o
. Much. Drama.

The complete opposite of anything I wanted when I came out here. But I don’t take the words back. And I can’t bring myself to regret them. Even when he rises up and climbs out of bed, giving the bad thoughts ample opportunity to rush in and tell me how crazy I’ve become over a guy I just met.

But the warmth of my confession stays with me as I listen to the sound of him going into the bathroom to clean up. And the truth of my words is still glowing inside me when he returns and gets back into bed, spooning me into his arms, and resting his heavy cast against my naked breasts.

“I’m going to take that off for you before I leave,” I tell him, fingering the cast. “I just need to run into Meirton tomorrow and get some kind of oscillating tool at the hardware store.”

“Meirton… can I come with you?”

“Into Meirton? Sure, I guess,” I say. “You want to get out of the house?”

“I need to stop by the police station. They still have my backpack from the accident. I’ve been meaning to go there for a while, but…”

“The bus doesn’t stop here, so you needed a ride.” Belatedly I remember Meirton is where his accident took place. Where he lost his past.

“Why didn’t you ask me to take you earlier?” I demand.

“Because I didn’t feel like leeching off of you even more than I already am, but if you’re going there already…”

Being super-careful about his cast, even though it’s about to come off, I turn around in his arms.

“Hey, baby, you’re not leeching off me! You’re just getting better. And you’ve done me the service of healing here rather than someplace else. Please don’t ever put it that way again. Plus, all the cooking you’ve been doing? So worth the price of rent, which by the way is like pennies compared to what I’ll be paying in Seattle.”

I can’t see him in the dark, but I can sense his agitation in the way he pulls me closer, like he’s afraid of losing me even though I’m right here.

“I like doing for you, Doc,” he says. “Taking care of you. Making sure you’re fed and fucked everyday. But I want to do more for you. Provide for you.”

I huff out a laugh. “Baby, I’m a doctor! I don’t need providing for.”

“I don’t know about that. I saw your student loan bill on the counter the other day.”

I grimace. “Yeah, well, that bill is kind of intense. But trust me, I’ll be all right financially. I don’t want you worrying about my stuff. I’m the only one allowed to worry in this relationship, got that?”

It’s a joke, but he doesn’t laugh like he usually would. We sit there in the dark, and this time it’s me who can practically hear him thinking.

I’m not surprised he hasn’t fallen asleep when he eventually speaks up a few minutes later. “I’ve got a plan brewing in my head to follow you to Seattle. You know that, right, Doc?”

No, I didn’t, but I guess maybe I did, because eventually I nod and say, “Yeah.”

“And when I find my way back to you, I don’t want it to be like this. You making money. Me not bringing anything in. I want us to be together, make a life together. I want you to forget I was ever anybody’s patient.”

His hope, stated so sincerely, makes my heart ache. And though I wish I could let him dream, doctors simply aren’t that fanciful.

“Look, I understand where you’re coming from. I do. I know how it feels to want something it doesn’t necessarily feel like you can have. I’m in West Virginia now because I got rejected from every other combined program I applied to. And I’m super lucky The Children’s Hospital of Seattle happened to be looking for a media savvy fellow this year. But your case…”

I struggle for a way to break it to him gently. “The thing is, you can’t do much without a proper form of ID. If you want to get a job, you’re going to have to go through a pretty intense process. There’s not much precedence out there for someone without an identity trying to apply for all the stuff people need to be employed, get health insurance, and open a bank account. In most amnesia cases, the patient has a family, or at least some form of ID to connect to a name. Cases like yours are in a legal gray area. You’ll have to pick out a new name. And we’d need to get you a lawyer, someone to advocate for you so you can file for your new name. It’ll be like you have to become a brand new person.”

“That’s fine with me,” he answers, voice gritty with determination. “Whatever it takes to be with you, I’ll do it.”

His words are like him. So sweet. So loving. So completely insane.

“Hold on,” I have to say. “You’re not okay with me calling you John, but you’re like ‘Sure!’ when I say you’ll need a new name and identity in order to come work and live in Seattle with me?”

“Now you’re upset about me wanting to be with you?” he asks me in the dark, his voice tight with irritation.

“I’m not upset. I’m just…confused about why you’re willing to take on a whole new life when you haven’t done much to recover the life you already have. I love you, but I’m also a practical person. So I’m honestly wondering if you shouldn’t start seeing somebody before you make any final decisions about moving out to Seattle.”

“Somebody,” he repeats.

“Yes, somebody like a neuropsychologist.”

John’s arms stiffen around me. “I already saw a head doctor in the hospital. It didn’t help too much.”

“I’m not talking about a psychotherapist. I mean the kind of specialist we don’t have at UWV/Mercy. A neuropsychologist could assist you with your thinking skills, assess your recent behavior, and help you emotionally process what you’re going through.”

John’s arms were stiff before, but now they drop all the way down. “You’re using a lot of fancy words to say you think I need to go see somebody because the way I feel about you is crazy.”

“No, the way
I
feel about
you
is crazy!” I shoot back. “I have no excuse. But you have a TBI, and that means—”

“I’m not crazy. I love you. Why can’t you accept that? Why can’t you just let me love you?” he demands, his voice so even, he might as well be yelling for all the angry emotion I can tell he’s holding back.

“Because my specialty is cancer. And I’ve seen what happens when people deny what’s really going on. When they don’t take the time to process it. And I can’t tell you how many parents—even the ones with excellent insurance—refuse to let their child see a therapist and end up letting them die without any real sense or understanding of what’s happening to them…” I don’t realize I’m crying until I can’t speak anymore.

“Doc? Doc?” he says, sounding alarmed.

A light switches on and the dark is replaced by John’s worried face.

“What’s going on?” he asks, frowning as he uses his good hand to wipe the tears off my face.

I shake my head. “Nothing…it’s stupid.”

“Fuck that, Doc. I said we were talking after I put you under me. And you ain’t under me no more. So talk.”

I don’t want to talk about it. Any of it. But then suddenly, that’s all I’m doing. Talking. “Ronnie Greenwell died last night. I came into the hospital to do rounds with my attending, and they were like, ‘Sorry, she went into a coma and stopped breathing.” And my attending told her mom what happened. But her mom wanted to talk to me because I’m black, and she wanted to hear it from a black doctor. And I tried to explain it to her, but she just kept saying, ‘You said she could go home. You said she could go home.’ Which wasn’t what we’d said. The only hospice with an open bed is in Pittsburgh, and we’d said she could go home until we found Ronnie something closer to where her mother works in Ohio. I tried to explain this, but Ronnie’s mom didn’t understand, and I couldn’t make her understand. And Ronnie’s not Chanel, but it was hard, because they had the same kind of cancer. And I used to be like Ronnie’s mother. I used to not understand what happened to Chanel either, but now I do. I understand exactly what happens when you can’t find a bone marrow match because your kid’s African-American, and the chemo stops working, and there’s nothing you can do other than make someone who really shouldn’t be dying comfortable while they die. And usually knowing why it’s happening makes it better. But today it didn’t make it better. Her mom kept screaming, ‘I want to take her home! I want to take my baby home!’ At one point, all I could do was hold her and tell her, ‘She’s already home. I’m sorry, but Ronnie’s already gone home.’ Falling back on my mom’s religious platitudes instead of this degree I upended my life for. But I had to tell her that sometimes medicine just doesn’t work. Sometimes it’s completely useless. Just like my degree!”

“Ah, Doc…” He presses a kiss into the top of my head. “You lost one patient, but you’re saving lives, too. Your degree ain’t useless. Now who is Chanel?” he asks softly.

“My little sister,” I whisper, finally discussing the thing I never talk about.
Never fucking again
, I’d sworn to Sandy when she tried to make me. “She died of ALL—acute lymphocytic leukemia—the year before I left for college. She’s actually the reason I applied to five-year med schools—why I dropped out of ValArts. But Ronnie reminded me of her. Not a lot. Just enough that I guess I’m feeling it a little more than I should right now.”

“A child died,” he says, knuckling my cheek. “I don’t care what you signed up for, Doc. You got the right to be sad about it. I’m sorry that little girl died. She deserved better than that. So did your little sis.”

My face crumples with the truth of his words. “Yes, yes…they both did.”

He holds me while I cry for all the lives cut too short by this disease. For all the brave little girls who will never grow up to become the strong women I know they would have been, could have been.

He lets me cry my heart out, rubbing my back with his cast. And only when I’m done does he speak again. “Alright…I understand why tonight went the way it did. But next time something like this happens, remember, that’s not us. You got something weighing on your heart, you tell me as soon as you walk in the door. Even when you’re in Seattle, I want you to call me first thing when anything gets to bothering you. Okay?”

“Okay,” I answer, voice small.

“You promise? I want us to be one of those couples who know how to talk to each other.”

“I promise,” I agree with a watery laugh. Then I ask, “Couples who talk to each other. Is that old or new?”

“New,” he answers, voice a little hollow. “Definitely new. But I want us to be new.”

Is it weird that I understand exactly what he’s trying to say? That I’ve felt like a completely new person ever since he came into my life? That I want us to stay new, too, even though I know he’ll eventually find out about my past?

He reaches over and turns off the light, but still keeps me cradled against his chest in the dark. And it’s when he’s holding me like this with no sexual intent whatsoever that I truly understand how deep I’m in with this man. How truly and sincerely I meant every word I said in the heat of our passion.

God, what am I going to do a few days from now when it’s time to get on the plane to California? I can’t take him with me. But how am I going to leave him behind?

L
ike a scream from the past
, my dad calls the next day right at our mercilessly negotiated hour.

“You get my email?” he asks in lieu of a hello when I answer the new special phone.

“Yes, Dad, I got Mom’s email.”

My dad won’t so much as touch a computer or even deal with the email app on his smart phone. My mom, Cassie, handles all of that for him. But Dad always insists on referring to it like he sent it himself.

He must realize I’m in no mood for his bullshit this morning, because he concedes, “Mommy said she sent you the ticket yesterday morning and you still ain’t said nothing. You know it wasn’t cheap.”

“Whatever, Dad. It’s a one-way ticket. Stop being a cheap, bitch,” I answer in my snottiest tone. But then my voice softens as I admit, “One of my kids died yesterday and it really took a lot out of me.”

Dad pauses on the other end of the line. My sister, my job—and especially little kids dying at my job just like my sister did—are all on the list of things we aren’t ever supposed to discuss.

But Dad recovers in his typical fashion. “That’s why you don’t need to be messing around with them sick kids in the first place. You out there watching Chanel die over and over again. How you doing anybody any fucking good with that shit?”

“Okay, Dad,” I say with a sigh, steering us back to the main topic. “So it’s the first day Mom’s been out of town. You know the first day’s always the worst. Curt will be back in a couple of months, and I’ll be there by the end of the week, so you can disparage my job all you want then.”

“Fuck you and Curt, always throwing them big words around. Trying to psychoanalyze me and shit. Your mama’s lucky I don’t run up in some other ho while she out of town. You know how many bitches round here looking to upgrade me?”

“Yes, you’re very handsome, Dad, and you’ve still got it going on. You should totally cheat on Mom just to prove that. And eat more red meat while you’re at it. Oh and maybe start drinking too much on top of all the weed you smoke.”

“Fuck you, bitch! I was missing you before I heard your voice. But you think this is why I had kids, so you could call me and come at me like this? Fuck all you ungrateful bitches!”

“First of all, you called me. Second of all, just how many hos do you plan to acquire for this thought experiment of yours? One? Two? You think three would be enough to get Mom to leave you?” I ask, knowing this question will set him off even worse.

My dad cusses me out for a full minute before abruptly hanging up, because he’s got better things to do than fuck around on the phone with an ungrateful little shit like me.

So yes, a typical phone conversation with my dad, who only sprinkles regular words into his steady cuss stream as flavoring. And who after twenty-nine years of marriage, still has the nerve to miss the hell out of my mom whenever she leaves, but pretends she and him aren’t like the most solid couple on earth—especially by California standards. He’s the type who’ll send a “not cheap” ticket to West Virginia, so his daughter can fly home to accompany him to the one event my mother can’t attend with him this year, but refuses to put a dime toward my medical career because he truly believes the whole thing is ridiculous and morbid.

Now that I think about it, I shouldn’t be surprised that the first time I fell hard for somebody, he ends up being made up of a million contradictions. Seriously, look at how I was raised!

Speaking of whom…John pads into the kitchen in nothing but his black sweatpants and presses a sleepy kiss into my temple before saying, “Hey, Doc. You sleep good?”

“Really good,” I answer, pocketing the special phone in my knee-length kimono and continuing with my original task of making us breakfast. All that’s left is to pour the almond milk, but I find myself feeling like this offering isn’t good enough.

I mean, it’s fine for a busy, single doctor. But not so much for a woman on the verge of leaving behind the man she…my heart gives a little shiver just thinking about it…loves. The first man she’s
ever
loved in this way.

When I sit down at the coffee table with him and our bowls of cereal, I find myself saying, “I bet I can do better than this for breakfast tomorrow. Maybe I’ll see if I can pick up some frozen blueberries when we’re in Meirton, and some applesauce. I could make us Blueberry Oatmeal Waffles...”

John shakes his head and continues eating. Fist over spoon with his elbow up. “I’m good with cereal, Doc. You don’t have to go and do anything fancy for me. Who were you talking to earlier?”

I crook my head, confused.

“On the phone. I heard you talking to someone when I woke up.”

“Oh, that was my dad,” I answer. Strange, less than an hour has passed but that phone call already feels like it happened long ago. Like it came from a galaxy far, far away on a different time continuum. “He just wanted to make sure I got my plane ticket for my California visit.”

“To visit your family back in California,” he says in a way that makes me think he’s my family in West Virginia, even though that’s not probably not what he meant.

I nod. “Dad’s getting kind of antsy. Both my brother and my mother are out of town, and he’s one of those guys who doesn’t do well on his own. It’s kind of a long story.”

One I don’t remotely feel like explaining.

“So you done any thinking about it yet?”

“About what?”

“Introducing me to your family.”

I go completely still.

“And I’ve scared you again.”

“No, no…” I insist. “But, see, my family is a lot. I mean, we’re really close, but we’re not like normal families. We’re kind of crazy. Well a lot crazy.
A lot
—a lot. I know you don’t think your feelings will change, but I really feel like it would be better if we um…wait.”

“Until my memory returns?”

“Or until we’ve known each other a lot longer than six weeks,” I counter.

I grab our dishes and carry them to the sink before he can take the conversation any further, though. Then I rinse off the dishes, doing my best to ignore all the, “What happens when…?” floating around our relationship.

What happens when I leave West Virginia for good? What happens when he gets his memory back?

I rinse out our bowls, but end up lingering at the sink long after I’ve switched off the water. Why does the simplest relationship that’s ever happened to me have to become so complicated as soon as I leave this state?

But I’m not allowed to linger with my thoughts for too long. He comes up behind me, wraps his arms around my waist, and rests his chin on my shoulder. His hospital beard has become a full-on beard now.

“Wanna get a razor while we’re in Meirton?” I ask him, stroking the fuzz with one hand. Changing the subject.

His answer: “Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do, Doc. You know I’ll do anything you want. But if it’s up to me, I’d just as soon keep it.”

I chuff at his unusual brand of acquiescence. My possessor. My thrall.

“No, do what you want,” I answer. “If you want to keep it, keep it.”

We stand there together, looking out the window towards the nature preserve where we’d be doing yoga if it wasn’t Saturday. Our agreed upon day off from exercise, work, and pretty much anything else that doesn’t involve us spending time together.

Had I only been kidding myself about how deep I was getting into this thing with him over the past month? It seriously feels now like we’ve been a couple from the start. My whole life I’ve only gone into relationships after putting in a lot of practical thought. Our connection, what we said to each other last night in and out of the heat of the moment; I’m not sure how to process any of it this morning.

“I’m not trying to scare you, Doc,” he says, voice sober, as if he’s read my thoughts.

I sink further back into his embrace. Grateful for him. Confused by him.

“I know,” I answer. “This is just so…” I seize upon the word in a flash of inspiration, “
New
. It’s all new to me, too. I mean, my best friend Sola kind of fell fast for her husband. But she was a drama major, and I’m a doctor. I never thought I could feel like this for anyone.”

I’m making some valid points here, but I can feel him grinning against the side of my neck.

“Why are you smiling? How is this funny?”

“You thinking about becoming my wife someday, Doc?”

“No, I’m just saying…”

But he cuts me off, turning me inside his arms and silencing me with a tender kiss to my forehead. “You have permission to think those thoughts,” he says, knuckling my face as he looks down at me. “Them are the kind of thoughts I like.”

“I’m not—”

But he kisses me again until I forget to protest. Until I forget to think. Until I forget how doomed our love may very well be. At least for a little while.