A Time to Remember. Lois Richer
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She inspected him from head to toe. “You don’t look the medical type. Would you mind finding a nurse? I’ve tried to get out of this bed and do it myself, but every time I push on these bed rails, my head starts whirling. If I could just get some aspirin, I’m sure this headache would ease.”
“I don’t know if they’ll allow you to have medication until they’ve done all the tests. You have a head injury, remember? But I can go look for someone.” He surveyed her bruised face, broken nails and the scratches that covered her arms. “You look like you fought a cougar,” he muttered, his stomach clenching at the thought of what she must have been through.
“I feel like it, too.” She eased her head back on the pillows and closed her eyes. “Do you mind if we continue this discussion later? My head is about to shatter.”
“Yeah, sure. I guess.” It stung that she brushed his concern off as if five months ago she’d simply driven to Denver for a day of shopping and he was nothing more than the parking attendant. “Where have you been, Marissa?”
She didn’t even open her eyes, but her voice was a whisper. “Please leave me alone.”
Impotent rage burned deep inside. Didn’t she care enough to even explain? Had five months changed everything between them? Was she remembering those last awful words he’d thrown at her?
“I was worried, Marissa. Scared stiff. I hired a private investigator when I couldn’t find you myself. I was sure that you’d phone or write. Something. But I never heard a word from you or Cody. What happened?”
Her eyes were open now. She was staring at him as if he were a specimen she was trying to define. Her blue eyes had darkened until they were almost navy. With fear? Of him?
“What do you want from me?” she asked huskily.
“What do I want? I want answers.” She was frail, she was hurt. But the need to know could not be stifled. “Where did you go, Marissa? What have you been doing? Why didn’t you contact me?”
“Good questions.”
“Well?”
She turned her head to the wall, stared at the blinds that someone had turned open to the morning sun. Gray waited, anger building inside. What was going on with her? Why was she acting like this?
“Aren’t you even going to answer me?” he sputtered, clenching his hands at his sides.
“Certainly. In due time. But I have a question, too.” She pleated the sheet with her left hand. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind answering that first?”
“I guess.” He shrugged, pretending nonchalance when he knew she was going to ask about that day. “What is your question?”
“Would you mind telling me exactly who you are?”
Chapter Three
His eyes flashed like lightning, changing from a soft dove-gray to hardened steel.
“I’m your husband.”
She stared at him while her mind desperately tried to process the information. Husband? She had a husband? Wouldn’t a woman remember if she had a husband?
“Gray,” he prompted, frowning at her. “Gray McGonigle.”
“And I’m Marissa McGonigle. I see.” She couldn’t blame him for his belligerent tone. It seemed perfectly understandable now. “I was your wife. I was married to you.”
“Are married to me,” he corrected, his tone belligerent. “Unless something’s happened that I don’t know about. Do you remember?”
She hated to destroy that sad-eyed look of puppy-dog hope in his eyes, but she couldn’t pretend. Not about this.
“I’m sorry. I don’t remember anything.” Marissa. She turned the name over in her mind. She liked it. It sounded different, special. As if someone had taken the time to choose a name specifically for her. “My parents?” she asked, suddenly wondering why only he was here.
“Both dead. Your father died when you were little. Your mother died two years ago. Breast cancer.”
“Oh.” She felt flat, deflated, as if she’d unconsciously expected—what? Someone to be there? She chided herself for her silliness. Who else did she want? Wasn’t an unknown husband enough?
“What do you remember, Marissa?” He squinted at her as if he thought she was playing some childish game.
She attributed the angry frustration in his voice to worry. He must be worried. A husband would be worried if his own wife didn’t recognize him. Wouldn’t he?
But this man didn’t look frazzled or afraid. Or worried. He looked…defeated, she decided after a moment’s contemplation. As if he’d tried very hard and just couldn’t manage to make sense of his world.
She scoured her brain for something, some ray of hope she could offer. To her shock, nothing emerged. She looked at the gold band on his ring finger, then at the matching circlet guarded by a blazing diamond on her own left hand, and suddenly realized that she didn’t know how it got there.
“Nothing,” she whispered. “I remember nothing.” She stared at him. Blank. Her heart picked up speed as she peered around the room, stared out the window, squinted at the picture he’d laid on top of her blanket. “What’s this?”
“A picture. Cody made.”
“That’s nice.” Whoever Cody was. “Will you thank him for me?” She stared at the childish scribbles, smiled at the ghostly figure fluttering among the trees. “Is it almost Halloween?”
“No. That’s about seven weeks away.” His dark brows joined to hood his eyes. “Why?”
She shrugged. “It looks like a Halloween picture, that’s all. I’ll bet he’s a cute kid.”
“Yes.” The man named Gray nodded. “Our son is a wonderful boy. But he’s got some problems, I’m afraid.”
Whatever else he said slid past in a whirl of confusion. She got stuck on those words our son.
“Cody is my child?” she gasped.
“Well, he’s both of ours,” he agreed, one corner of his mouth tilting up in a half smile. “You used to say he got all my genes, but I’m pretty sure his stubbornness came from you.”
“A child.” She laid a hand against her abdomen as if that might somehow reawaken slumbering memories of pregnancy, labor, delivery. “How old is he?”
“Five. Almost six.” He sighed, slumped against the wall and raked a hand through his hair. “I’m guessing you don’t remember him, either.”
Marissa shook her head, then stopped the action immediately as pain threatened to swamp her tired aching body.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, tears welling for all the precious memories she couldn’t share with him. And she wanted to. Something about this man drew her soul, called to her. Surely somewhere in her brain she knew him?
Yet her brain drew a blank.
“It’s not your fault.”
But he sounded as if he thought it was.
“I suppose I should be grateful that my existence isn’t the only thing you’ve managed to wipe from your mind.”
Oh, the pain underlying those words. She could feel the despair gripping him, dragging him down. He’d obviously been up all night. A five-o’clock shadow gave him an edgy flair that only enhanced his harsh features. His cheekbones were definitely a legacy from his distant Cherokee heritage, but those lean, taut muscles and that burnished tan came from hard physical labor.
Marissa froze, tried to figure out how she’d come to that conclusion. But the mist that carried the insight