Chapter 9 #2
Noah looked startled.
“What?”
“You know?”
He stared through the windshield.
“No.”
His brow furrowed.
“I mean, you told me.”
“I did.”
The hope receded.
I hated myself for chasing every word.
Noah noticed.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Do that to yourself.”
“I’m trying.”
“It was one thing.”
“One important thing.”
“Still one.”
“Yes.”
I focused on the road.
After a while, Noah’s right hand shifted.
His fingers covered mine where it rested near the gear lever.
I did not move.
The harbor appeared between buildings.
Masts rose above the rooftops.
Noah leaned forward slightly.
“That’s the yard?”
“Not yet. The marina.”
“Do we work there?”
“Sometimes.”
The station wagon turned onto Harbor Row.
Callahan Marine Works occupied the final property before the public docks. The main building was weathered gray cedar with blue doors. A row of masts stood beyond the covered workshop. The office windows looked toward the channel.
Caleb and Owen waited beneath the awning.
Marlowe stood between them on a leash.
The dog saw the car.
His entire body changed.
He barked once and pulled hard enough to move Caleb a step.
Noah went still.
“That’s him.”
“Yes.”
Marlowe barked again.
His tail struck Owen’s leg.
“He knows me.”
“Very much.”
I parked near the office instead of the apartment stairs.
Caleb held Marlowe back while I unloaded the powered chair.
Noah watched through the open passenger door.
“Will he jump?”
“He will try.”
“Don’t let him.”
“I won’t.”
I positioned the chair and locked it.
“Ready?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He looked at me.
“You stole that from Priya.”
“She has useful lines.”
I braced Noah’s right side while he pivoted from the seat. His foot found the ground. Pain crossed his face.
“Stop?”
“No.”
He lowered himself into the chair.
I adjusted the support beneath his left arm.
Marlowe whined.
The sound was unbearable.
Noah looked at him.
“Bring him.”
I glanced at Caleb.
“Slowly.”
Caleb shortened the leash and approached.
Marlowe trembled from nose to tail.
When he reached the chair, he did not jump.
He pressed his head against Noah’s right knee and made a wounded sound deep in his throat.
Noah stared.
Marlowe lifted his face.
His muzzle had gone nearly white over the last year. His dark eyes remained fixed on Noah with uncomplicated devotion.
Noah raised his right hand.
The dog leaned into it before contact.
His fingers sank into Marlowe’s fur.
“Hey, old man.”
My breath caught.
It was exactly what he always called him.
Noah looked at me.
“Did you tell me that?”
“No.”
His hand stopped.
Marlowe nudged it impatiently.
Noah resumed stroking his head.
“Another one?”
“Maybe.”
His eye filled.
Marlowe licked his wrist.
“That’s disgusting,” Noah whispered.
The dog’s tail struck the pavement harder.
Caleb wiped his face with his sleeve.
Owen pretended to inspect the gutter.
I stood beside Noah, unable to breathe properly.
Marlowe lowered himself beside the chair as though taking up a position he had been forced to abandon.
Noah kept one hand on him.
Caleb recovered first.
“Welcome back,” he said.
Noah looked up.
“You’re Caleb.”
“That’s what the government claims.”
“And Owen.”
Owen gave a small wave. “Good to see you.”
“I know your faces from the pictures.”
Caleb smiled without letting hurt reach it.
“That’s a start.”
Noah glanced toward the workshop.
The main bay stood open. Inside, tools gleamed beneath the lights. The smell of varnish, diesel, salt, and cut wood drifted into the yard.
His face changed.
“What?”
He shook his head.
“Smell.”
“Familiar?”
“I don’t know.”
Caleb stepped aside.
“No pressure to go in.”
Noah considered.
“Not today.”
“Whenever.”
Owen took the duffel from me.
“We installed the temporary stair lift,” he said. “The rental company checked it twice.”
Noah’s mouth tightened.
“Angry vacuum cleaner?”
I nodded.
“It is worse in person,” Caleb warned.
We moved toward the rear of the building.
The apartment entrance sat at the top of a steep covered staircase. Beside the handrail, a narrow motorized seat had been mounted on a track.
Noah stared up.
“That’s mine?”
“For six weeks,” I said.
“It looks like an execution device.”
“It has a seat belt.”
“That confirms it.”
Caleb tried not to laugh.
The powered chair would remain downstairs. Owen carried the lighter transfer chair to the landing.
I positioned Noah beside the stair lift.
“We can stop,” I said. “The downstairs room is ready.”
He looked through the open office door.
A bed had been placed in the former chart room, along with a small table and blackout curtains.
It was safe.
It was also not home.
Noah turned back to the stairs.
“I want to see upstairs.”
“All right.”
The transfer required patience.
He locked the powered chair, shifted onto his left leg, and let me support his waist while Caleb steadied the stair-lift seat.
His body was warm beneath my hands.
Too thin.
Too familiar.
Noah lowered himself onto the mechanical chair with a hiss.
“Pain?”
“Manageable.”
I secured the belt.
He glanced down at my hands near his hip.
“You’ve done this before.”
“Strapped you into medical equipment?”
“Put your hands there.”
Heat moved between us.
Caleb cleared his throat.
“I can become invisible if needed.”
“You have never been invisible in your life,” I said.
Noah smiled.
I pressed the control.
The stair lift began to move with a loud mechanical growl.
Noah stared at me in betrayal.
“You understated the sound.”
“I was trying to preserve morale.”
“It’s chewing the house.”
“Only gently.”
Marlowe climbed the stairs beside us, stopping every few steps to check Noah remained present.
Halfway up, Noah closed his eye.
I stopped the lift.
“Dizzy?”
“Yes.”
Caleb moved quietly below us.
Owen waited at the landing.
No one rushed.
I placed my hand on Noah’s shoulder.
“Breathe.”
“Don’t narrate breathing.”
“Then breathe without supervision.”
His mouth twitched.
The dizziness passed.
We continued.
At the top, I unfastened the belt and helped him into the waiting chair.
The apartment door stood open.
Noah looked inside.
Nothing dramatic happened.
No instant recognition.
No gasp.
He stared at the narrow hallway, the old floorboards, the framed harbor maps. Marlowe pushed past us and trotted into the kitchen.
“This is it,” I said.
Noah did not answer.
Owen carried the bags into the spare room.
Caleb remained near the door.
The green navigation lamp hung on the wall beside the stairwell.
Noah saw it.
His breathing stopped.
I moved closer.
“The dream?”
He nodded.
The lamp was unlit in daylight, its thick glass dark as bottle green.
Noah reached toward it but could not quite touch from the chair.
I moved him nearer.
His fingers brushed the brass frame.
His face went pale.
“What is it?”
“I know this spot.”
My heart began to pound.
“From the photograph?”
“No.”
He closed his eye.
“Your hand.”
His right hand moved to the back of his neck.
“You stood there.”
I could barely speak.
“Yes.”
“After the storm?”
“Yes.”
He looked at the wall beneath the lamp.
“We kissed here.”
I searched the memory.
Not our first kiss.
Months later, after he had moved upstairs, we came home soaked from a winter callout. He had stopped beneath the lamp and pulled me against him because the power was out and the green emergency light made everything look unreal.
“You remember?”
“No.”
His frustration flashed.
“I know it. That’s different.”
“It still matters.”
“I can’t see it.”
“You don’t have to.”
He pressed his palm to the wall.
“Warm wood,” he whispered.
The words from his dream.
A tremor went through him.
I crouched beside the chair.
“Noah.”
He looked at me.
“I was behind you,” I said. “You were cold. I put my hand on your neck.”
His breath caught.
“Did I turn around?”
“Yes.”
“Did I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
His gaze dropped to my mouth.
The moment sharpened.
I did not move.
Noah’s eye lifted to mine.
He leaned forward a fraction.
Pain stopped him before choice did.
He sagged back with a quiet curse.
I steadied the chair, not his body.
“Too much.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re gray.”
“That sounds attractive.”
“It does not.”
Caleb appeared at the end of the hallway.
“Couch is ready.”
The interruption saved both of us.
We moved into the living room.
The apartment looked cleaner than it had in years. Caleb and Owen had cleared cords, removed the low coffee table, rolled up rugs, and shifted furniture to create a wide path.
The old couch faced the harbor windows.
A temporary reclining chair had been placed beside it.
Noah stared.
“You changed everything.”
“Only the dangerous parts.”
“Where was the table?”
“Here.”
He pointed.
“Did I know that?”
“It was in several photographs.”
His expression fell.
I hated the disappointment.
“Not every correct answer has to be memory,” I said.
“It would be nice.”
“Yes.”
I locked the chair beside the couch.
Noah transferred with my help.
The effort emptied him.
By the time he settled against the cushions, sweat dampened his hair.
Marlowe climbed onto the floor beside him.
“Head?” I asked.
“Bad.”