When I See You (23 page)

I'm assailed by the memories of that terrible time after their deaths. I take an unsteady breath. She grips my hand even tighter. I just nod, unable to speak for a few minutes.

Finally I say, "I went to stay with my grandfather, my dad's father, in Northern California, until I was eighteen. Then, I went back to L.A. to live with Ashleigh. I sold the mansion in L.A., kept the beach house in Malibu, and started over. I went to USC and then culinary school. Ashleigh and I lived in Manhattan for a while, spent a summer in Paris, but we missed L.A. and, soon after, we moved back. I became head chef at Rivera. Then, I met Ethan. I got pregnant; we got married. He left for Afghanistan. I stayed in Malibu." I stop talking and swallow hard. I try to smile and brush away a stray tear.

"Soon, he'll have been dead longer than the number of days we were together. Can you believe I keep track of stuff like that?"

"I would, too," Janie says in a consoling tone.

A tapping sound along the hallway's wood floor interrupts us. Brock appears in the doorway. He's changed into a black Polo shirt and fresh blue jeans. His hair appears damp. I'm surprised that he's apparently taken a shower in the middle of the afternoon. Janie gives me a little smile and studies me intently as she continues to hold my hand.

"Brock, Jordan and I were just talking about Max. He's with Tate; right? They should be back soon."

"Right." Brock cocks his head to one side and seems to hesitate. "Jordan," he says softly. "There was a little mishap with the water trough at the far side of the barn, but he's fine."

"What do you mean?" I ask, trying to mask my sudden alarm.

"Max was climbing the coral fence and almost fell into the trough. I caught him in time, but I got soaking wet." He grins. "But, he's fine."

"Is that why you've taken a shower in the middle of the afternoon?" I can't quite keep the worry out of my voice. My heart rate has sped up at just visualizing Max almost falling into the water.

"He did great. A little surprised is all," Brock says, shaking his head.

I'm stunned by wondrous beauty of his amazing grey-blue eyes and reminded of the Pacific in winter once again from not so long ago. My reverie is interrupted by Janie who jumps up all at once and announces she needs to attend to dinner.

Brock and I are left alone. He stands at the living room doorway and seems as uncertain as I suddenly feel.

"Your mom is amazing."

Brock half-smiles. "Amazing, the human form of magic, meddlesome," he says with a slight frown. "Sometimes, all three at the same time."

"You're lucky."

"I know I am."

He's still standing there, kind of half-leaning against the doorway for support with his white cane in his left hand. He runs a hand through his hair and eventually sighs.

"Could you describe the room a bit? They haven't been in here to mark this one. I guess they're coming tomorrow."

"Oh. I'm sorry." I jump up and race toward him. "Let me help you."

I slide my arm though his. He gives me an exasperated look.

"Jordan, you don't have to escort me in here. Just describe the room. Where things are."

"Oh, well, I'm here now," I say, trying to mollify his obvious irritation.

I sympathize with his sudden pitch into a world where he has to depend upon others so much. I feel somewhat self-conscious, standing next to him, holding on to him. It stirs up all these uneasy feelings.

Our friendly companionship on the ride from the airport has since evaporated and been replaced by this total awareness of the other. It seems to permeate from both of us and offers little protection.

"I'm sorry about falling apart. Earlier. I don't." I pause for a moment. "I don't usually do that. I haven't. I don't know what's going on with me."

"It's okay to be human, Jordan. We all are."

"You sound like your mom."

"My mom is mother nature, herself," he says with a laugh. "Didn't you know?"

We're still standing at the doorway, arms locked together, as if we're a bride and groom about to descend down the aisle toward the altar and just awaiting a blessing. The incongruence of this image unsettles me. I hold my breath, trying to chase it away. I flashback to what Tate said about marrying Ashleigh one day. I have yet to get my best friend alone for a minute to even discuss the audacity of that prediction. Ashleigh actually getting married is such a foreign thought, such a remote possibility, even with Michael, let alone Tate Matthews. I start to laugh a little. Ashleigh marrying Tate is about as remote as Ethan coming back from the dead. A flash of Igor Dasher in his green velvet suit comes to mind and I grip Brock's arm tighter in response to thinking these thoughts.

"You okay?" Brock asks.

"I don't know. I think so."

I wipe away a tear that has managed to find its way down my face and am suddenly glad that Brock can't see it. I realize at the same time how incredibly painful that would be, to never know what people were really feeling around you because you couldn't see them. I take an unsteady breath and sigh.

"Jordan," he says, breaking my reverie. "Describe the room."

"Oh sorry," I groan. "I got distracted. There was this guy Igor Dasher and he was—"

"I don't really want to hear about your love life, even about a guy named Igor," Brock says with a grimace. Can you help me get to the sofa?"

I start to laugh, however inappropriate, with the idea of Igor in any way serving in the role as my lover. Brock frowns, extricates himself from my groping arm, and starts making his way across the living room by himself.

"Igor Dasher was the director at the funeral. He let me see Ethan one last time. I don't know why I was thinking about it."

Brock stands stock-still halfway across the living room. He turns back toward my voice. "You saw him? You saw Ethan?" There's so much pain in his voice and face; I have to look away for a moment.

"Yes. I told you that. Months ago. I saw him." I look back at Brock. He's shaking and I go over to him and take his arm again. "I had to say goodbye. I had to know it was real. That he was really gone. Forever."

"You saw him," Brock says more to himself.

I sense the sadness in him and it reaches at my own.

"What do you remember?" I ask. I'm unsure I even want to know anymore, but feel compelled to ask him.

"That's the thing. Like I said before. I don't remember anything about that day." Brock touches his forehead. "Kate says it's locked up here. And, until I do remember, I won't be able to see anything. She thinks it's why I can't see. She thinks whatever I can't remember is the key to being able to see again."

"Kate." I'm unable to hide my uncertainty in his mentioning this Kate.

"She's my psychiatrist. Well, she was while I was in D.C. at Walter Reed. We've been—"

"Friends," I say with sarcasm. I step away from him. His hand drops to his side.

"It's not like that." His voice doesn't hold much conviction though.

"Friends," I say softly. "Like we're friends? Or something different?"

He looks away. I half-smile that my probing question has made him uncomfortable. I don't do more than a cursory calculation as to why I would be pursuing this line of questioning about being more than friends with this Kate.

"She'll be here in the next couple of days. She's coming down from D.C. with some new idea for my therapy." His voice trails off, and he looks back in my general direction.

I sense his helplessness in the situation with my intended silent treatment and in not being able to see me. There's no outward indication from me about how I feel about what he's said. This incredible feeling of jealousy comes out of nowhere. I hold my breath a moment and attempt to get my bearings. Guilt for feeling this way pushes at me from all sides. I gasp for air and try to pace my breathing after that.

"You're so different," I finally whisper. "I hated your playboy ways before. I wanted Ashleigh to dump you on your ass back then. But now? I don't know. You're so sad. It's hard to see you like this, so broken."

"It's hard not to see," he says with a trace of irritation. "Look, I don't need your sympathy, Jordan. I wanted you to come here so we could go over Ethan's estate and settle a few things. You should see the ranch, the Lazy J. We'll have to figure out what to do with it now. I was hoping…" He stops and starts again. "I was hoping it wouldn't come to that, having to do something with the ranch, but Kate's told me that the blindness may be permanent. And the truth is I need to get on with my life."

"Kate says! How does she know?" I ask. "Can't the people at Criss Cole help you? Maybe, it's as simple as going on a grassy hill and putting yourself back there. Maybe then, you'll remember and your sight will return. "

"I can't keep hoping for miracles, Jordan. I have to get on with my life. If this is it, so be it."

"Why? I don't understand why you would just give up."

"Don't you see? I can't have a life in Austin anymore. I can't
see
the ranch to run it. I'm going back to D.C. to—"

"To Kate," I whisper. All at once, I understand what he's really saying to me.

"Yes."

"Does your
mother
know?"

He looks taken aback, then shakes his head, and bitterly laughs.

"No."

He moves the white cane out in front of him, blindly taps his way toward the sofa. I just watch, angry and unmoved.

"Ten feet," I finally say. "There's a chair. On the right. Sofa is about two feet in front of you. There's a lamp to your nine o-clock. Perfect. Okay. Turn around. Feel the sofa at the back of your knees. You're golden."

I watch him slide down to the sofa, collapse his walking stick, and place it along the coffee table. A sigh escapes his lips. "Come sit by me."

Somehow, I'm drawn in with a need to connect with him again in the same way we did on the way here. I walk over and slide in beside him. He pats my knee, and I move a little closer, as if we're old friends.

"How can I help you, Brock?" I ask.

"Want to go to Afghanistan with me? Lie on that hill one last time and see what comes back to me?" He looks sad. "Sometimes, that's what I think I need to do."

I shiver and let go of him. "I could never go there, just like I can never go back to Spain again." I glance over at him. "Your mom knew them. Did you know that? My parents, Davis and Laurel Breckenridge. Your mom went to high school with my mom. Here in Austin. How weird is that?"

"Pretty weird," Brock says. "I didn't know. I wasn't sure. I guess I knew it was possible. They're about the same age. Austin isn't exactly L.A. People know each other here. But I never talked to her about your mom."

"I know. She says I look just like her. Not many people remember my parents anymore," I say slowly. "However famous they were, people move on, but it's nice to know someone who knew them. I guess I came to visit once, when I was two, here in Austin, with my mom. You and Diana were almost four. You pushed me on a swing. That's what your mom said."

Brock gets this thoughtful look. "I might remember that. This cute little girl with long dark red hair came to play once." He smiles. "I guess that was you."

"Maybe."

"So." He reaches out with his hand and trails it along my jaw line and traces my collar bone. "We'll be friends," Brock says in an uneven voice. "Ethan would want that.
Us.
To be friends."

We settle back against the sofa in an uncomfortable silence. Me, disappointed, somehow, by his pronouncement. He, distant, all at once, probably thinking of this Kate.

"Tell me about the light," he finally says, effectively breaking our shared silence.

I glance at the large bay window where the last rays of sunshine pour into the room and quickly surmise this room was solely designed to capture that miraculous light every day.

"It's majestic. The light in here," I say. "It's been a beautiful day, and now, with the setting sun, the light pours through the window and touches everything with this filmy gold. I can see why your mother did everything in white and red. It's like living in a garden of flowers, being in this room. The reds turn orange and even yellow. It's amazing the light." My voice trails off at the look of peace that crosses Brock's face. He smiles. I smile back even though he can't see it.

"That's how I remember it. Thank you. I just wanted to make sure it's still there and that it has that effect on someone else, besides me. When I was a kid, whenever I was scared or felt alone, this is where I would come, to this room, with that incredible light coming through the window pretty much any time of day."

"Uh-huh."

I'm staring at him, taking advantage of being able to look at him without being judged by anyone else for doing so. I take a deep breath.

"You okay?" Brock asks.

"Think so. It's been a long day."

I continue to stare at him, taking in the way his hair, now longer, falls across his forehead. I clasp my hands together to keep from reaching out and playing with his hair.

"So," I say. "You come in here a lot?"