Chapter Six
Cujo let the double doors of the hospital swing closed behind him and searched the waiting room. He’d been finishing up a neck piece for a long-time client when he’d received the call. It sucked to abandon the team on a Saturday, but family always took priority.
His dad’s face was pale, the skin around his eyes pinched with worry. Devon stood, ankles crossed, leaning next to a tall window.
The smell of a hospital brought back memories Cujo fought to forget.
The insipid paintings of flowers and those awful attempts at Modern art.
Ammonia and pine assaulted his nostrils as he sat down to face his dad.
Eerily syncopated beeps of equipment were interrupted by a loudspeaker announcement for a visitor to move their car from the ambulance bay.
Cujo sat down. “What happened?”
“It’s your mom. I don’t know anything else yet. They sent for the doctor.”
Cujo watched the clock on the wall. The minute hand vibrated every time it changed position, wavering back and forth as if it hadn’t decided which direction time should take.
“Alec Matthews?” All three of them hurried over. “I’m Doctor Jaffrey. I’m the neurologist looking after your wife. This is Detective Lopes, he’s the police officer assigned to Mrs. Matthews’ case.”
Cujo looked at his dad, who seemed to be having problems keeping himself together. He recognized Detective Lopes. He’d helped Harper earlier in the year.
“I’m Brody Matthews, her son. Detective Lopes, we’ve met. I co-own Second Circle with Trent Andrews.”
“I remember. Sorry we aren’t meeting again under better circumstances.” Detective Lopes shook their hands.
“This is my father, Alec Matthews, and my brother Devon. Can you tell us what happened?”
“Mrs. Matthews was found in North Shore Park. We believe it was a botched robbery. She was severely beaten.” Cujo shifted involuntarily. The detective’s words hit him physically.
Alec groaned and fell against Devon, who looked as white as the walls behind him.
Dr. Jaffrey took over. “Mrs. Matthews has suffered several injuries, including a traumatic brain injury and has required significant facial reconstruction to the left side of her face. She’s been in a coma for a week.
Until yesterday. She gave us her name today, but Mrs. Matthews has posttraumatic amnesia.
She can only remember details from several decades ago.
” Dr. Jaffrey stopped for a moment to look at his pager.
“It isn’t uncommon for someone who has been in a coma.
Memory loss can last a few weeks, it might come back tomorrow, or it might never return at all. ”
“Does she have any other injuries? I mean was she … how did it happen?” Alec asked.
“We ran extensive tests. The CT scan and MRI revealed some damage to her skull and brain. She’s been in surgery twice to address an internal brain bleed.
The injuries to the left side of her face are substantial.
Normally, we’d want to see more swelling go down, but the injuries were too severe to wait.
We inserted plates into her cheek, and her jaw is wired.
She’ll possibly need further surgery when she’s healed some more. ”
Cujo looked down at the floor, sucking in huge breaths. Fuck. He shook his head, trying to stop the spins that threatened to lay him out on the gray linoleum.
“What’s the prognosis?” Devon asked.
Yeah. The future. Great question.
“We expect a full recovery. Not to understate the severity of her injuries. She requires more time before she can be referred for physical therapy. And her brain swelling and memory loss need to be monitored.”
“What can we do?” Alec looked at the doctor hopefully.
Cujo echoed the sentiment. There were so many unanswered questions. “Can we help her remember?”
“Eventually, yes. It’s a bit too soon to bombard her with visits and memories.
You can talk to her. Show her photographs.
Play her favorite music. Bring her favorite flowers.
But don’t push her. Memory recovery is difficult on the patient.
There is every risk, given the severity of the assault, that her brain may try to shield her from the memory of the attack. ”
Cujo rubbed his hands up and down his face. Old feelings of abandonment outweighed his feelings of compassion. Did he even want to spend time with this woman? Would she want them there?
His dad might have a couple of Polaroids floating around somewhere in the house.
When Evelyn had left, the family photos that hung in the hall had quickly disappeared, leaving squares of unfaded paint on the wall.
When it came to the rest of his mom’s preferences, he was as clueless as she was right now.
He was a total shit. He didn’t want to help her. She’d abandoned them for twenty-five years. What would happen when she remembered? Should they pretend to be a happy family until she recovered?
“We’re going to have a problem.” It was more of a thought, but he realized he’d said it out loud.
“What’s that?” asked Lopes.
“We haven’t seen my mom in twenty-five years.”
Doctor Jaffrey looked a little shocked. Detective Lopes didn’t flinch.
“Pardon?” said Jaffrey.
“My mom abandoned us twenty-five years ago.”
“Do you know where she lives now? What she does? Any other next of kin? Friends?” Lopes pulled out his notepad, started scribbling.
“We haven’t seen or heard from her once.” Cujo said, rocking from his toes to his heels and back again. Someone had hurt his mom, and as much as she had hurt him, he still wanted to kick the shit out of something.
His dad gripped his forearm.
“Can we see Evelyn, please?”
“I see no harm in it,” said Doctor Jaffrey looking toward Lopes, “if everyone agrees to stay focused on what’s best for Evelyn’s recovery.”
They followed the doctor to her room.
His dad walked to the side of the bed. “Evelyn. I’m so pleased you’re safe.” He slid the plastic visitor chair next to the bed and sat.
But Cujo couldn’t bring himself to look at her yet.
He was eight. And she was slamming the door. He felt Devon leave his side, walk toward the bed. Could hear their mumbled words of greeting. Awkward. Stilted.
He looked at her then. A pair of electric blue eyes that matched his own regarded him carefully. And in that moment he understood her. Because she didn’t want to be surrounded by a roomful of strangers, anymore than he wanted to be there.
* * *
Drea stood outside the cake shop leaning against the turquoise wall, eyes closed to the sun. She looked like a modern-day Roman goddess in her pretty white sundress and gold bangles.
“Morning, Shortcake. Remind me why we are here,” Cujo said as he walked toward her, eying the store with suspicion. Had it only been two nights since he fucked everything up with her? Or twenty-four hours since he’d been reunited with his mom?
She opened her eyes, looked at him indifferently. Shit.
“José’s friend just opened this patisserie. I know it’s overkill, but she’s doing us a huge favor on the price and she really wanted us to come try them.” Drea paused, studying his face closely. “But you don’t have to do this today if you don’t want to.”
Drea gripped his arm, the feel of her skin against his as frustrating as it was soothing. He hadn’t told anyone about his mom’s return, but somehow she knew things weren’t right.
Two hours at the gym hadn’t quelled the confusion swelling like a tsunami, coming from nowhere and crashing over him with enough force to pull him under.
His mom was back, yet he was no wiser as to why she’d left.
The person he wanted to yell at, to let see his life turned out just fine without her, didn’t remember abandoning him.
He felt more powerless now than he did when she was gone.
Letting Drea down wasn’t something he wanted to do. The kiss between the two of them at his house had knocked him on his ass. The way she’d felt beneath him. Fuck. Perhaps seeing his mom again was for the best, a reminder to keep his heart solidly behind the bars of his ribs.
“I’m fine, Shortcake,” he said with a weak smile, patting her hand and removing it from his arm.
Coming straight from the gym to here was a recipe for cardiac failure. If the high-intensity strength-training session didn’t kill him, the sugar high was about to. Maybe he’d just fade into a diabetic coma. And all before nine on a Sunday morning.
A chalkboard CLOSED sign hung on the door. None of the lights were on inside and little folding chairs were leaning against the small square tables with military precision. “You sure it’s today?”
“Yes.” Drea knocked on the glass door. They didn’t wait long before a beaming smile greeted them.
“Drea, entre mon ange.”
“Madeleine, this is Brody.” Careful not to squeeze too hard, Cujo shook Madeleine’s hand.
He imagined he could break her bones, which seemed narrower than the pencils he used at work.
She was an odd contrast—an elegant feminine face with long dark hair and red lipstick, and the body of an eleven-year-old boy.
“Bonjour, Brody. Come, come. I ’ave so many treats for you. Très délicieux.”
Cujo quickly realized Madeleine was a tornado. Whirling around the room, decorated in white with an occasional tile painted with cheerful sunflowers, she served up their first sample.
“This one is a simple pound cake with delicate layers of lemon curd and buttercream. It is decorated in a lemon couleur buttercream icing, but I could do whatever couleur you prefer. Try. Mange s’il vous plait.”
Cujo picked up the child-sized fork with strange prongs.
“It’s a cake fork,” Drea whispered. “Use the fat prong to cut.” She turned her fork and sliced to demonstrate.
It was going to take an hour to eat a slice of cake at this rate.
“Oh my God,” Drea groaned, the raspy lilt of her voice hitting him in places he’d decided were off-limits. “It’s so good.” She opened her eyes and looked at him. “Seriously, try some.”