The Way You Make Me Feel (2 page)

Nubian Gold was a one-of-a-kind company that dealt mostly in grassroots, Black country music and gospel. Damien was making a fortune recording country church music and sermons. There were incredible sales. He had expanded more rapidly than he actually wanted to.

Yeah, he thought now, he was feeling deeply protective toward Stevie and if it was more, he didn't want to know about it. He'd been burned once, and the flames of love that had burned him had done him to a crisp.

He touched her face. “Beginning tomorrow I'm going to take you places that will jog your memory. I'll take you home. We're going to need to change your locks. And I'll take you by Club Insomnia and we'll see Bretta and Jessi. Bretta's your best friend. They'll be glad to know you're safe.”

He was startled at the sudden fear that leapt into her eyes. She looked as though she couldn't breathe. She tried to say Bretta's name and couldn't.

“What is it?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Something. I don't know.” But goose-bumps had peppered her body and she was suddenly cold.

He talked a bit more about her singing and her songwriting. “You remember ‘I Don't Need You Anymore.' The music anyway…”

And she sang in a very soft voice, “‘I don't need you anymore, Don't need the lies, Don't need the heartache…'”

He bent and hugged her. “Oh, Stevie, this is wonderful! The psychologist is going to have you in tip-top shape in no time. You'll remember everything.”

His words went reeling down the corridors of her mind.
You'll remember everything!

Yes, she would remember everything—and die. Then Stevie's back came up and she thought no matter what she did or did not remember, her father and mother had taught her courage, and even as a child she had stood up for herself. She was afraid, but fear wasn't going to rule her life.

Damien's hug had awakened small fires in her that she didn't want to feel. The woman who had been here tonight was beautiful and she and Damien were likely lovers. But he had sent her away with sharp words. She shrugged. A lovers' quarrel? She knew she'd be no match for the woman he called
Honi.

He stood up. “I'm going out for a moment. I'll be in the next room. Don't try to go to the bathroom until I get back. I'm sure you're still a little dizzy.”

She nodded and smiled at him.

A short while later Damien came back in blue pajamas and a burgundy robe. He stood looking down at her, and she wished he'd sit on the bed again.

Stevie smiled. “You like burgundy. The pajamas I have on, your drapes, your robe. The color becomes you.”

“And it becomes you, as I've said. I like a lot of things. I'm sensitive to color and I've always admired the color of your skin. It's rare.”

She touched her face. “It's skin.” She had freckles across the bridge of her nose and he liked them. Honi's creamy skin was flawless.

She was sleepy then and slid down beneath the covers. He touched her dark-brown, soft hair with its natural kinky curls. A bit of green leaf was entangled in her hair. He pulled it out, reminded of what she had just been through.

She got up and went to the bathroom, surprisingly steady on her bare feet. The bathroom was so luxurious with its ankle-deep plush navy rug and matching decor. Even the gold spigots must have cost a fortune. She finished and hurried back, hating to be alone.

She got back in bed and fell asleep quickly as he sat in the big chair by her bed. Glancing around his bedroom he thought about the lonely nights he had spent here since Honi and he had broken up. Now Stevie brought her arm out from under the covers and turned over on her side facing him. His heart turned over as he watched her sleeping. She snored slightly and for a little while she looked peaceful.

Her skin
was
beautiful: silken, the color of brewed black tea with shades of tan, yellow and cream in it, and a hint of rose. He was a connoisseur of beauty in women, of beauty in anything. No. Stevie wasn't beautiful in the common use of the word, but she more than held her own.

He had deliberately kept his eyes away from the rest of her body, but his thoughts kept focusing on it anyway. Narrow shoulders, full, shapely breasts, wide hips—child-bearing hips. He shook his head. God, how he wanted a child. Maybe he wasn't meant to be married, but he felt he was meant to be a father. His nephews and nieces meant so much to him, and he thought he'd make a great father. Honi had laughed at him about children; she didn't want any. “We're enough for each other,” she'd always said. Yeah, Honi had set his world on fire—and ripped his heart to shreds.

He put a night-light on and got thermal blankets from the closet, throwing one over Stevie and threw one onto the chaise lounge before he lay down. As he dozed, he didn't realize he had a smile on his face. The night before he'd been about as lonely as a man could be; tonight something and someone new had come into his life. He'd known Stevie, but he felt now he hadn't known her. He sure intended to.

He glanced at the luminous dial on the clock radio that sat on the night table. Suddenly Stevie stirred in her sleep moaning, “No! No! Don't do this to her! Run, Bretta! Run!”

“My God,” he muttered. “What in the hell is this?”

He got up and went to her, held her tightly and felt her heart thumping against his chest. He smoothed her hair and pressed her head to him. “It's all right, Stevie. I'm here and it's all right.”

She pulled back from him and tears filled her eyes. “Damien,” was all she said at first, then, “I almost remembered. It was on the edge of my mind. I saw a scene, saw it plainly, then when I came awake it was gone and I couldn't remember what I saw.”

He patted her back, stroked it. “Don't push it, love. Let it come as it will.”

Stevie bit her lip. He had called her “love.” She wished she could let someone love her again, but she never could. Snatches of music had come into her head, then lyrics, so she had something to comfort her. But she no longer had a husband nor any children. And who were Bretta and Jessi? She would have to ask Damien to tell her more.

He held her for a very long time until she slept again, and he tucked her in and went back to the chaise lounge. His body was heavy with longing, but he fought it. He would help her. He'd always liked her, but it would go no further than that. He had used up all the romantic feelings he had to share with anyone.

But one thing he knew: he would keep Stevie with him until they got to the bottom of her trauma. She wouldn't be alone as long as he had breath.

S
tevie came awake early. Glancing at the clock radio, she saw it was five-thirty. She looked over at Damien, who slept peacefully on the chaise lounge and her heart skipped a beat remembering him holding her last night. She ran her tongue over her bottom lip. He was some kind of man. Then she jumped as she realized his eyes had opened and he smiled.

“How're we feeling?” he asked. “You had a bad night at first, but you settled down.”

She thought a minute. “I can't believe how much better I feel. I sure remember tossing and turning and my dreams beat up on me.”

He thought it best not to mention right away her crying out to Bretta in her dreams.

“What about now?”

She nodded. “I wouldn't have believed I could feel so much better so fast.”

She heard noises downstairs and started.

“Don't worry,” he said, “no one's breaking in. That's just Cina and Ben. They like a very early start. Are you hungry?”

“A little. I can still taste that chowder.”

“What would you like for breakfast?”

Right away she said, “Oatmeal and bananas if you have them. And I've got a craving for a hot dog.”

He laughed. “You don't think you're pregnant? That's when you get cravings.”

She looked sad then as she told him, “Not that I remember. You said I have no children.”

He nodded. “That's right, all in good time. Are you ready to get up? We've got a lot to do today.”

“I'm ready.”

He came to the bed and looked down at her as he had the night before and her heart raced. Even in his robe she could imagine his magnificent body and her body thrilled.

Damien was having his own picnic imagining her body. He felt the beginning of an erection and turned toward the panel behind the bed, his finger on a buzzer.

“Hi,” he said to the voice that answered. “We've got a visitor and we'll be down shortly.” He told the voice what he wanted prepared.

She got up, only a little stiff. He brought her a robe and fresh pajamas, smiling as he saw her rested face. She didn't seem as frightened to him, though inside she probably still quaked.

“I'm afraid you're going to have to face people in my robe,” he said. “Cina and Ben are the most understanding in the world. You have nothing to be concerned about. Come down when you're ready. Cina will put your clothes in the washer and dry them, and someone will bring you a new outfit.” He guessed her dress size and she knew he was right, which puzzled her. She knew her dress size, remembered the song. Instinctively she knew she remembered a lot more, if only vaguely. But she knew there was one thing she must never remember.

A half hour or so later, tingling from the force of the triple-headed shower and a few calisthenics, she shyly went down to the kitchen, looking around her. She found Damien and his caretakers preparing breakfast. Damien had apparently told them what had happened and Cina came to her, hugged her. “Poor lamb,” was all she said.

Cina and Ben were quite a couple. Fit and in their sixties but looking ten to fifteen years younger, they were obviously still in love. She was smooth-chocolate and he was honey-brown; both had loving, Southern nuances in their voices.

“You're going to have a good chance to get used to them,” Damien told her, “because I'm keeping you with me for a while.”

Cina and Ben nodded their approval.

Stevie couldn't quite get her breath then. She hadn't let herself think about where she was going or what she was going to do. Damien helped her into her chair and she picked up the tall glass of orange-cranberry juice before her. It tasted wonderful and she gulped it down. It was followed by the oatmeal and ripe bananas, then pancakes, sausage, eggs and maple syrup. She smiled, thinking to herself that she was sure she'd never felt so hungry.

“We've been to a lot of your concerts,” Ben said. “You're a favorite. That ‘I Don't Need You Anymore,' is a real winner. And your soft ones, boy they're something.”

Stevie thanked him as Cina nodded her affirmation. And across the table Damien looked at her steadily, liking what he saw. Maybe he had wasted time with the glamour-pusses. Stevie seemed so deep, so real to him, and he thought God Himself had given her to him to shelter. Then he thought he wasn't being like his sophisticated self.

The packages came from the department store around nine and, back in Damien's bedroom, Stevie opened boxes and bags. She laughed aloud at the navy silk sheath and matching jacket with its wide cream collar and cuffs. Then she blushed, because there was beautiful, lacy, cream-colored underwear. It was all so beautiful. He had asked her shoe size and she had looked in one of her old shoes. A matching handbag completed the outfit.

She was still in the robe when Damien knocked. At her bidding, he came in. She thanked him profusely. “Let me know when you're ready,” he said, “and we'll be on our way to the hospital. You're looking fabulous. So rested, and hardly frightened at all.”

She touched her scratched face with her hands and his words brought back the torment of the past couple of days. She blanched then and her breath came faster because she didn't want to leave this house. He seemed to know what she was thinking as he gently said, “We
have
to go, Stevie. We've got to see whether or not you have a concussion.”

 

The emergency room of the big redbrick hospital wasn't busy and they were seen within the hour. Damien went with Stevie and the sleepy-looking resident gingerly felt the lump and immediately took her for X rays.

“I can get to these in a few minutes,” the resident said. “This is a nasty lump. What happened?”

“I seem to have fallen. I came to lying beside a big stone embedded in the ground. I don't remember anything else.”

The resident whistled.

“We'll need to talk to a psychiatrist,” Damien told him. “Is Dr. Winslow on duty by any chance?”

“You're in luck, he is. His office is on the third floor. I'll call and tell him to expect you, but you might have to wait a bit. He's a busy guy. After you get through talking with him, come back and I'll give you the X-ray results.”

Damien noticed that Stevie stayed close by his side and that was fine with him; he enjoyed having her there. Everyone had said that after she got the divorce she'd fought for, Jake McGowan had decided he wanted her back and had never stopped trying to get her. Others said she knew too much about his tax troubles and he didn't want her to testify against him. The prosecutor was on his tail like white on rice.

Steve Winslow, the psychiatrist, was a tall, sturdy man with dark-brown skin, smooth shiny hair and piercing eyes that seemed to see everything. His manner with Stevie was warm and winning. “Fortunately, I have a little time,” he said. Then to Stevie, “Would you like to talk with me alone?”

“I want him here,” she said huskily. “He needs to know what I have to say.”

Dr. Winslow seated them both and took a seat across from them in another deep-cushioned tub chair. He sat quietly studying Stevie until he finally asked, “What would you like to talk about first?”

Without hesitation, Stevie answered, “I want to remember my life and I don't want to remember. I'm terrified that if I remember I'll be killed and I don't know why that's so. I may not be able to help you much.”

The doctor nodded. “Just do the best you can. Do you believe in hypnosis?”

“No, I—
No
hypnosis.”

“Have you ever been hypnotized?”

She laughed a bit. “I wouldn't remember if I had. Listen, Dr. Winslow, things are slowly creeping back into my mind. My name already seems like mine. I'm remembering things vaguely. My mother and my father. A child and a young girl I'm assuming was me. But Damien tells me I was married and I don't remember any husband at all. I don't remember my best friend, yet he tells me I woke up crying her name. Why?”

She turned to Damien. “Please talk to him. I'm shaking again.”

Damien told the doctor what he knew as the man listened quietly. After Damien had finished, Dr. Winslow turned again to Stevie. “Did your best friend, Bretta, hurt you in any way? Disappoint you?”

“No,” Stevie said quickly, “she never would.” Then she stopped, her hand over her mouth. “But how would I know? I don't remember her. Oh God, this is so terrible.”

The doctor drew a deep breath. “You seem to have temporary amnesia and I wouldn't rush it. It's nearly always caused by severe or massive shock due to trauma. Not remembering is far safer than remembering, and the mind seeks to protect itself or to protect itself
and
the body. Would you answer a few questions for me?”

“Yes, of course, if I can.”

“You say memories are slowly filtering in. Which ones seem most important?”

Without hesitation, she said, “The ones about my mother and father.” Here she hesitated before she continued. “And last night Damien mentioned a song to me and I picked up the words and the melody. It's a song he says I wrote and recorded.”

“You're a singer then, and a songwriter?”

“Yes.”

“She's one of the best,” Damien said proudly. “Country music mostly.”

The doctor's eyes lit up. “‘I Don't Need You Anymore.'”

Both Stevie and Damien said, “Yes!”

The doctor leaned back. “My wife and I were having trouble when that one came out and I remember it because she dedicated it to me on a radio show we both listened to. It brought me back to my senses and we've lived happily ever after. I love that song.”

“Thank you.”

“I'm going to do what's called free association. I say a word and you, without thinking, say whatever comes to mind. Friend.”

“Love.”

“Parents.”

“Love.”

“Damien.”

“Lo—
friend
.” Her body got hot and she moved a bit.

The doctor smiled. “You were going to say
love
.”

“I don't know him well enough to say that, although he tells me we've known each other for a number of years. He seems to me like a part of my life, but I—Let's go on.”

“Husband.”

Stevie began to tremble a bit, but righted herself. “Monster.”

“Bretta.”

It was a red flag this time and she responded. Clapping her hand to her mouth, she leaned forward, her brown skin paling. The words spilled out. “No! No, I
can't!
Bretta, run! Oh God, I…”

The doctor asked very calmly, “Can we focus a bit on this? What is it that disturbs you so?”

But Stevie shook even harder and, alarmed, Damien went to her side, knelt and cuddled her.

“I want to go,” she sobbed. “I've got to get out of here.”

They decided then that she would come another day and the doctor gave them a prescription to calm her anxiety, and another appointment. He told them, his face somber, “Be sure you keep this appointment. Stevie, you need help bad and I think I can help you. You're in grave danger of a breakdown.”

 

The X rays were clear, so it was decided that Stevie had a mild concussion. She was to be careful and see the resident in three days. He was keenly interested because she had temporary amnesia.

Going back to Damien's car, Stevie hugged his side and he held her hand. Once inside the car, she seemed calmer. “We'll be back,” he said. “We can't let you have a breakdown.”

“Okay,” she mumbled, moving away from the subject.

He took out his cell phone and made a quick call asking that someone meet him right away at Stevie's house to change her locks.

She glanced at him sharply. “You can get someone this early right away?”

“I called Pedro Luna and he's cooperative. I'm backing him in his business.”

She thought a minute. “You like helping people. You're sweet.”

He laughed. “Not everyone would agree with you. I'm made of the regular old snakes and snails and puppydog tails.”

Damien thought she seemed calm again.

Out on the highway she looked around her, puzzled. It all seemed so familiar. They were going to her house which was in the country outside Nashville, a couple of miles from his. The terrain was beautiful with green late-April grass and foliage, flat land planted with daffodils in spots.

“I've come this way many times before,” she said. “I just don't remember when.”

“It'll come. Like the doctor said, don't rush it.”

She didn't answer. They parked in the driveway of a big cream stucco house, Spanish style with a dark-blue tile roof. There were impatiens beds on either side of the beautifully landscaped yard.