The Shadow of Your Smile (4 page)

How did a woman forget the man she’d been married to for twenty-five years?

Eli rounded on Anne as they exited the ICU, nearly backing her into the wall.

She held up her hands. “Eli, calm down. The amnesia is probably temporary.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He still gripped his hat, his eyes burning from the trip to Duluth through the blinding snowstorm that had stretched out two hours to nearly four. His hands ached and his head throbbed.

Worse, down the hall in the lounge, their seventeen-year-old son waited to hear if his mother would be okay.

Eli took a breath. “What was that in there?”

Anne didn’t ruffle easily. “She’s got some retrograde amnesia. It’s rare—and certainly rare to have her revert so far back.”

“She thinks she’s in college, for pete’s sake. She doesn’t have a clue who I am. She
ordered me from the room
!”

Anne led him over to a bench, sat him down. “She doesn’t know you right now. But you heard her; she said you looked familiar. There’s a shadow of you in there, and we have to believe that you’ll surface. That her life will surface. It’s most likely just the shock from the fall, perhaps some temporary blood loss in the temporal or frontal lobes. I’ll order a CT scan and find out what’s happening. But she’s responsive; her vitals are fine; her pupils are normal. The effects of the head trauma seem to be abating.”

“Then why doesn’t she know me?”

“Sheriff, you know as well as I do that it’s common for people to forget the events leading up to a trauma. Or even a few days after.”

“The woman has lost half her life, Anne.” Oh, he didn’t quite mean that tone. “And all of the life we shared together.” Or had she forgotten only him? “Maybe we should bring Kirby in there, let him jog her memory. Certainly she’s not going to forget her son.”

Anne had cut her hair since he’d seen her last, lost weight, but she still retained the sense of calm emanating off her that made her so valuable in a trauma. He wanted to drink in her confidence as she pressed a hand on his arm. “The last thing Kirby needs is to see his mother confused and even not knowing him. Let’s wait until morning, and then we’ll assess.”

“But what if she doesn’t get her memory back? What if she’s forgotten . . . everything? Kirby and Kyle and . . .” He cupped a hand over his mouth, drew in a breath.

His loss reflected in Anne’s eyes. “The brain is an amazing organ. It has a way of healing itself. I don’t have to tell you to pray, Eli, but I have seen miracles happen. However, I’m not sure we need a miracle here. It’s too soon to tell how much memory she might have truly lost, if any, and if it is permanent. The best thing you can do right now is stay calm, get some rest, and trust that she’s in God’s hands.”

Eli walked to the glass doors, stared in at his wife. She looked so broken in that bed, her blonde hair plastered to her head, tiny lines of pain on her face. When she’d looked at Anne and asked her to make him leave . . . well, he wanted to weep. How could she not know him?

Or maybe she simply didn’t want to. Maybe after three years of trying to push him out of her life, trying to forget him—all of them, really—she finally had.

He rested his forehead against the glass. No, God couldn’t take his wife from him. At least not like this.

“Eli.”

“Who holds up a coffee shop?”

“On a day like today, maybe the thief thought he could get away, hide out in the storm.” Anne cast a look at Noelle. “The clerk—a high school girl—died at the scene. I’m not sure where Noelle found the courage to run, but she is a Hueston.” She turned to him, and he tried to find peace in her kind smile. “Let the Duluth police do their job. You focus on your wife. I’ll get you a medical stay pass at the hotel across the street. You must be exhausted.”

“I’m not leaving Noelle.”

Anne gave him an expression he’d known himself to give others over the years. “Yes, in fact, you are. We’ll move her out of ICU in the morning if she continues to have a good night, but it’s past visiting hours, and although I made an exception, this dispensation is over. Out of my ICU, Sheriff. Go get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She’d moved to stand in front of the glass doors that led into the ICU. Folded her arms.

“You’d make a good cop.”

“So Noah has told me. Good night, Eli.”

Eli tugged his hat back on and trudged down the hall toward the lounge area. How he hated hospitals—the ever-present aura of despair, the fading hope on the faces of the weary stacked and waiting in the padded vinyl chairs.

He and Noelle had probably worn the same expressions as the doctors fought for Kelsey’s life.

Kirby had dropped off to sleep, one long leg dangling over the edge of the brown love seat. His head had rolled back, caught now in the crook of the sofa’s arm. Beside him, his Diet Coke dented a
Family Circle
magazine on the table. A
Sports Illustrated
crumpled on the floor where it had slipped off his lap. The kid, with his toned muscles, unruly brown hair, the blue-and-white Deep Haven Huskies letter jacket, reminded Eli so much of himself at that age—so about himself, his sports, his future.

The boy couldn’t lose his mother. Not after all they’d already lost. He reached down, nudged his son with his knee. “Kirbs. Wake up.”

The seventeen-year-old stirred, licked his lips, blinked to consciousness. Focused on his dad. “Oh. Sorry.”

“No problem.”

Kirby sat up, rubbing the heels of his hands over his face. “How is she?” He stood and stretched.

“She woke up.” He didn’t know what else to add.

Kirby leaned down and grabbed the magazine, setting it back on the table. “So she’s out of the coma?”

“Apparently. They’ll probably move her out of ICU tomorrow.”

Kirby picked up his soda, making a face after he downed it. “Can I see her?”

Eli shook his head. “Visiting hours are over. We’ll see her first thing in the morning. I have a voucher for a night in the hotel across the street.”

“She had me worried.”

Eli clapped him on the back. “Me too.”

Kirby was silent as they walked through the corridors, past rooms of sleeping patients. Eli felt it too—the memories lurking in dark corners—with every beep of the machines, the smell of the carpets, the odor of sickness, the lost expressions of the bereaved in waiting rooms, bracing themselves for a nightmare.

If there was one thing he wished he could forget . . .

But would he wish to lose everything?

They rode the elevator down to ground level. Outside, the fresh snow glistened under the cleared sky. The air had warmed, the lake breezes more temperate after the storm. In the padding of night, he could hear the rumbling of snowplows, the graders on the roads, cleaning them for the morning traffic. Tomorrow, all evidence of today’s ice storm might even be melted away.

As Kirby opened the car door and retrieved the window scraper, Eli stood in the parking lot, hands shoved in his pockets, searching for hope in the glistening of stars against the blackness.

“It wasn’t his fault, Ritchie. I’m telling you, there was this groupie there—he’s the one that started the fight!”

Emma sat at her kitchen table, cell phone attached to the wall charger, wincing as Ritchie Huff detailed for her the expenses the bar owner intended on charging the band—namely her—for the brawl.

“Brian says it was this guy you knew, the one who carried you out of there, that started it.”

“Brian is wrong.”

“Well, at the least, you’re off their list of bassists, and they’re spreading the word around town. I’m just hoping I can get you off the hook for liability. But if you want any more gigs in this town, keep your boyfriend away from them.”

“He’s not my boyfriend!” But Ritchie had already hung up. Perfect.

Never mind the fact that for about four hours last night, she’d wanted Kyle to be exactly that. Her boyfriend. She pressed the phone to her forehead, closed her eyes. Oh, why, why did Kyle have to walk—no, he’d practically barged his way—back into her life? She could still feel his arms around her. And his kiss had been every bit as perfect as she’d imagined.

You never want to return to Deep Haven?
She’d hated the hurt in his voice, the disbelief.

But she could have just as easily rounded on him, accused him of the opposite.
And I can’t believe you do!

It wouldn’t do any good to try to change his mind. Grief did that—set people on paths they couldn’t always explain.

She’d hurt him with the armpit comment, however. And why not? Most people loved Deep Haven, a favorite vacation spot in Minnesota. Try living there, though. With the memories.

So she’d backed away from him, let him drive her home and walk her ever so gallantly to the door.

He didn’t offer another kiss. She didn’t suggest one.

Now she dialed the Checker cab company, gave her address, then slipped on her UGGs and a parka and went downstairs to wait. The sky hung low over the St. Paul skyline, a gray pallor that still sifted down snow, scurried up drifts. The plow had already cleared her street.

Maybe she should have scuttled her disappointment and let Kyle drive her to the 400 Bar this morning. He’d called her twice before he left for Deep Haven—making sure she didn’t want a ride to her car.

So what, he could kiss her again, make her long for a life she could never return to?

What is your heart into?

His words nagged her. Even more, her answer:
I’m still figuring that out.
Yeah, that felt like the first honest thing she’d said to anyone—including herself—since leaving Deep Haven.

She pressed her hand to the foyer window, drew it away, watching the outline on the glass.

One more time through, Emma; we nearly have it.

Kelsey could travel into her head so easily, especially after a gig. The songs Emma played, regardless of the genre, always took her back to the last time she actually felt like singing. Like composing.

She’d sat on the ratty green sofa her father had stored in the attic, her acoustic guitar over her knee, experimenting with a lick as Kelsey tried a different setting on her keyboard. Kelsey had always been the flamboyant dresser between them—in this memory wearing a black vest over a lacy tank, a pair of low-cut jeans. She had curves Emma envied, not to mention golden-blonde hair that she’d recently cut to a bob, tucked behind her ears. Raspberry-rose-painted toenails peeked out from the ragged hem of her jeans as she depressed the foot pedal. “I just want to try a different harmony on the bridge.”

Their song still incubated—scrawled in pencil with hash marks to delineate stanzas, the chord progressions written over the words, scratched out, repenciled. Kelsey usually came to her with the words, and Emma added the tune. Or vice versa. Emma might play a tune, and Kelsey knew exactly the words to add.

Like puzzle pieces.

No wonder Emma hadn’t finished a song in three years.

“I wish Kyle were here. He’s the best drummer in three counties. He’d figure out the beat,” Kelsey had said.

The lake breezes drifted through the window of the attic room over the garage, lifted the edges of their scattered papers. Despite their northern location, heat had slithered into the attic, sifting up the smells of grease in the garage below. Maybe later they’d motor into Deep Haven, grab an iced coffee at the Footstep of Heaven bookstore. Or a donut at World’s Best. Maybe they’d sit on the rocky beach, airing out their songs to the rhythm of the waves.

“Yeah, I agree. Call your brother immediately,” Emma said.

Kelsey laughed. “It’s too bad he’s already in college because I think he’d love jamming with you.”

Heat rose to Emma’s face. “You know I’m just kidding. I’ve been in love with your brother since second grade and I’m not sure he even knows my name.”

Kelsey came over, sat next to her on the sofa, reached for a chocolate chip cookie from the tray. “Someday, Ems, he’s going to notice you. I promise.”

Emma handed her a can of Diet Coke. “In my wildest dreams.”

“Seriously.” Kelsey took a bite of cookie. “But you have to promise me one thing.”

“What?”

She looked Emma in the eyes, hers alight with tiny particles of gold. “That no matter what happens with you and Kyle, he’ll never come between us. We’ll always be the Blue Monkeys.”

“I promise.” Emma held up her pinkie finger. Kelsey wrapped it with her own and laughed.

It was the echo of Kelsey’s laughter that Emma heard most often. It had a singsong melody about it that could twine inside her heart like an embrace.

Oh, Kelsey. He noticed me.

Her handprint vanished on the window.

“Hey, there you are!” Her roommate, Carrie, stood at the top of the stairs, holding her cell phone.

Emma shook herself out of the memory.

“You left your phone on the charger. I think your mom just called.”

Carrie, dressed in a tie-dyed shirt, homemade flare jeans, her dyed purple hair in cornrows, trotted down the stairs. “Where are you headed?”

“I have to pick up my car from the club.”

“Why?”

“There was a fight last night. I had to stop in at the ER, get a couple stitches. A friend drove me home.”

Carrie lifted the brim of Emma’s fedora to see the purple bruise the cut had left on her forehead. “Ouch. How did that happen?”

“I fell.”

Carrie raised an eyebrow. “By the way, I saw your
friend
. Care to elaborate?”

“He’s no one.” But, ow, that hurt to say.

Her cell phone vibrated again. Emma checked the ID, then flipped it open. “Hey, Mom.”

“I left you a voice mail, but I thought I’d try again. How are you?”

Emma knew she should call her more—her mother spent so much time keeping up their lakeside cabin-turned-home since her father died. She didn’t know how she got all that firewood chopped for their wood-burning heater. Probably hired it out, but still, the picture of her mother snowbound, freezing, and without wood haunted her.

“I’m fine. I had a gig last night.”

“How’d it go?”

“Fine,” she said, hating the lie. But her mother would only worry, and her forehead would be healed before her mom saw her.

“I’m sure it did. By the way, your friend Nicole called, looking for you again. Do you think you’ll be able to come up and play for Nicole and Jason’s wedding?”

Nicole Samson. She’d played second-chair flute in the band and was marrying a guy who graduated a couple years before them. When Emma received the invitation a month ago, she’d thrown it out. “Uh . . . they didn’t ask me to.”

“Nicole said she sent you an e-mail. She called last week and asked for your number. Apparently their band backed out.”

“My cell phone died a few days ago. I haven’t charged it.” In fact, with the single bar that remained, she might not have enough juice for this call. “And I haven’t checked my mail recently.”

Emma saw the Checker cab making its way down the street. She stepped outside, waved.

“You should check your mail now and again, Emma. No wonder I never hear from you.”

“I text you, Mom. You just never text me back. You should really learn how.” She opened the door, held her hand over the phone, and gave the driver the address for the 400 Bar. He nodded and she got in.

Her mother laughed. “I don’t understand how you can figure out the letters. Besides, who else do I have to text? Derek lives upstairs. Just answer your phone now and again.” Emma could see her, probably curled in Dad’s recliner, sitting next to the fire, wearing a pair of wool socks, a down vest, the waves through the picture window frothy on the rocky shore.

Or maybe she was arriving home, a couple sacks of groceries in her arms, from one of her many volunteer shifts. The thrift store, the nursing home, the library, the school—her mother logged more hours volunteering than if she worked full-time.

“I hope you can work it out with Nicole. Derek and I would love to see you. You could catch one of his games.”

And see Kirby and the Hueston clan, not to mention the entire town of Deep Haven, on the sidelines? Nope.

Oh, her grief cordoned off such brutal parameters. “I’ll let you know, Mom.”

Her mother paused, her voice softening. “Emma . . . do you need anything?”

Yes. Oh yes. She just wasn’t sure what it was. Emma leaned her head against the cab’s cold window. “No, I’m fine.”

“Okay. By the way, Noelle was injured in Duluth yesterday. She’s in the hospital.”

“That’s terrible. Did she break something?” Funny that Kyle hadn’t mentioned it. She drew in a breath, tapped the cabbie on the shoulder. He pulled over.

Her mother sounded strange. “She hit her head pretty hard, I guess. A terrible storm came through here, too. We got about a foot of snow. Eli and Kirby drove down to the hospital last night.”

“I hope she’s okay.”

“We all do, honey.”

“I’ll call you later, Mom.”

“Stay warm, Emma.” Her mother hung up.

Emma fished out a few bills to cover the fare, then got out and stood in front of the 400 Bar as the cabbie pulled away.

Somewhere under that giant snowbank was her little red Subaru.