Chapter 8 Sydney
Sydney
One Week Later
“I’m not Mrs.,” I whisper without opening my eyes.
“You could do worse things than wake up married to Gabriel McRae,” the woman says cheerfully.
A pang pierces my chest and throat.
“Try to stay calm. Dr. Granthy says when you feel safe again, it could come back.”
I’ll never feel safe again.
My last clear memories before this place are of high school in a small town. Living in a group home because I’d been in foster care too long. Playing soccer, determined to get a college scholarship.
I don’t know Dr. Granthy. Don’t remember anything the doctor said to me. Most of it has passed into the same void as everything before it. I can’t hold on to those new memories any more than I can keep a grip on my so-called husband’s name.
“You were rescued twenty-four days ago. No one will hurt you here. Can you open your eyes for me?”
I crack crusty eyelids.
The nurse indicates a silver-framed photograph from a bedside table. “Your husband put this close by so you can look at it anytime you need to. Do you remember seeing it yesterday?”
“Yes.” The man in the photo is almost too beautiful to be real.
The sight of his smile makes my throat burn.
The bride looks like she could be me. She has the same olive complexion and brown eyes inherited from my Sicilian-American mother.
We share the same dark hair, high cheekbones, and full mouth.
The man in the picture holds her in his arms while she laughs like he whispered something funny in her ear.
I want to smash the glass and tear the photo to shreds.
The picture is a lie. I know it down to my bones. Photoshop or something.
The gaslighting is next-level. If I managed to escape, not only does he have the financial resources to track me, he’s convinced the whole world I’m his wife. Even the police would return me to him if they didn’t put me in a psych ward.
I turn my head to observe the man where he stands near the window.
He must be somewhere in his early thirties, with hair the color of dark toffee.
If I touched it, it would run through my fingers like cool silk.
Dark scruff covers his jaw, and his bare feet sink into the plush navy and yellow area rug beneath him.
Wearing a rumpled black button-down and old jeans, he nurses a cup of coffee and observes me over the rim, giving me what I assume is meant to be an encouraging smile.
It’s fake, fake, fake. A smile is more than arranging lips to turn upward. He’s as beautiful as some statue carved in marble, but he looks like my dad always did after binge drinking: bleary and unshaven with eyes rimmed in red.
I frown and turn away. This bedroom is over-the-top fancy.
Rich. High ceilings. Pale blue and ivory wallpaper.
An entire wall of glass with blackout curtains they pull closed at night and slide open during the day.
A crystal vase full of daisies. The cheerful yellow centers and soft white petals are too humble for a place like this.
White slip-covered armchairs sit next to a round table angled near the sliding glass doors that lead out to a patio. The blue wallpaper has the sheen and weave of fabric.
At night, the man who says he’s my husband sleeps in the king-sized bed positioned next to my smaller one. During the day, he works on a laptop at a small wooden desk in the corner, prowls in front of those windows, or sits in a chair beside my bed.
The nurse pats the back of my hand, her skin dark brown and healthy against my pallid, chalky tone. There’s something no-nonsense and maternal about her.
Franny. The director of the group home. That’s who her manner reminds me of.
“You’re strong enough to weather the storm. Be proud of yourself. You earned it.” Franny’s words don’t apply to me anymore. But maybe I survived whatever happened to me because they once did. Now, my heart and mind are as fragile as my broken nails.
“I played soccer. I l-lived with Franny,” I rasp.
“See? You’re getting there,” the nurse says.
No. It’s like looking at a whiteboard someone has done a sloppy job erasing. The smears are there. The things I should remember but don’t. One new memory, especially an old one, isn’t enough.
I want to cut my way out of my skin. Or pull out all my upper teeth and see if the headache and the memories fall out with them. It’s the drugs they gave me. It’s the trauma. I’ll be back to normal soon. But I’m lying to myself. I don’t dare remember. It’s a trap.
The nurse’s encouraging expression doesn’t falter as I pull myself into a seated position and push my hair away from my face.
“You’re doing great. The physical therapist is impressed. You’d feel even better if you took your meds. And”—she levels me with a stern look—“you need to eat more.”
I won’t. I realized when I started believing their lies that they must be putting something in the food. None of it is safe. Like when I was a kid and ate rotten food out of desperation and almost died.
When the man is distracted or steps into the hallway to take a call, I steal small bits from his plate. I drink water from the bathroom faucet, but I haven’t touched what they give me for two days.
My thoughts are less . . . sticky every day. But the sick, heavy weight in my chest and head, and the hollow ache in my stomach are even worse.
The man thinks if I believe I’m safe, then I’ll talk. Joke’s on him. I don’t know the question, let alone the answer.
I touch the bridge of my nose. Sooner or later, he’ll snap when he realizes he’s been wasting his time with me. I don’t know anything.
A knock sounds at the bedroom door, and he sets his coffee down and strides, loose-limbed and strong, across the room to open it. When the man returns, he has a tray in his hand and pulls a small wheeled table over to my bed.
The nurse smiles, then leaves me alone with him again. My stomach pinches when he lifts a shiny silver lid to reveal fluffy scrambled eggs.
“Not hungry,” I croak. Lie. I’m starving. If I get the chance, I’ll find the kitchen and steal from there before I escape.
“If you don’t start eating and drinking, you’ll end up with a feeding tube.” Horrible words delivered in a gentle voice.
I glare at him, trying hard to look angry instead of terrified.
“Let’s try applesauce.” His voice is beautiful. If he sang, he’d make angels cry.
When he brings the spoon to my mouth, I clamp my lips shut, and he closes his eyes for a long moment. When he opens them, there’s something so tortured in his expression, I feel it physically, like a punch to the heart.
I nudge the bowl toward him. “You.”
He looks down at the applesauce, then back up again. “I’ll eat later. This is yours.”
I jerk my chin. “You eat.”
He shakes his head, then his brow furrows. “If I eat, will you eat?” he asks slowly.
I nod toward the bowl once more, knowing he’ll prove me right. He’ll never do it.
He lifts the spoonful of applesauce to his own mouth, swallows, then opens to show me his tongue.
Safe. The applesauce is clean.
I pounce on the bowl like a cat with a mouse, ripping the spoon away from him and shoveling the applesauce in as fast as I can, wasting precious drops when my trembling hands spill on my oversized black T-shirt. The tangy, sweet puree floods my taste buds first, then my entire system.
One bite after another, the cool spoon enters my mouth. When there’s nothing left to scoop up, I lick the bowl clean, uncaring if he thinks I’m acting like an animal. Then I push a triangle of toast toward him, watching to see what he does.
Without a hint of hesitation, he lifts it to his mouth, his straight white teeth biting off a healthy-sized corner of the buttered wheat bread. Again, I wait for him to prove he swallowed it.
When he sticks his tongue out for my inspection, I snatch the toast away from him, arm shaking, then bring it to my mouth, tearing into it like a starving dog.
“She eats,” he says, eyes smiling as he raises his hand in a quiet impersonation of Dr. Frankenstein’s “It’s alive.”
Those eyes . . . I recognize them. It’s more of a feeling than anything else, but I’ve seen his eyes crease at the corners like that somewhere other than the photo.
He pulls a pink tumbler with a clear, reusable straw closer. “Chocolate-flavored meal replacement shake. It’s got calories and protein. Yum.”
He sucks up a mouthful, then swallows before looking at the ceiling in exaggerated consideration. “I’ve had worse.”
“Liar,” I croak.
He winks and slides the tumbler in front of me. “Your turn.”
It tastes like the extra-thick chocolate milk that comes in the paper cartons in the school cafeteria, but with the chalky addition of protein and the tang of vitamins. It’s delicious.
I manage to drink a quarter of the tumbler and eat two bites of egg, then shake my head when my stomach protests the idea of more, even as my mouth wants me to keep going. “Full.”
He nods. “You did fantastic. Any requests for next time?”
“Umm. Pizza?”
“I’ll call Dr. Granthy. It may be a little soon. If it is, we’ll have pizza as soon as we get the green light.”
“Pepp-pepperoni and olives and . . .” My mouth sticks on the next word, though I know exactly what I want to say. I scowl in frustration. “I c-can’t say the thing.”
“Green peppers. That’s your usual order,” he says.
“You know what I like?” I don’t mean to speak the question aloud.
His voice turns rough. “Yeah.”
I shake my head. Why doesn’t he ever leave?
When I was hospitalized as a kid, nobody sat beside my bed.
I had an ear and sinus infection in tenth grade, and no one hovered over me, then, either.
Even when I had a temperature of 104. Anytime I’ve ever been sick, they forgot about me until I finally emerged to rejoin the land of the living.
I was always alone. Alone. Alone. Even in a group home.
People have their own lives and more important things to do. Not this man. He only ever goes for short periods of time when a nurse is here. “Don’t you have a job?”
His lips quirk. “You asked me the same thing the day we met. I own a property development company, and I’m responsible for a number of other family holdings, including a global shipping company and several tech companies.”
“You’re rich.”
“So are you.”
“That’s what someone who w-wanted to get me . . . on his side . . . would say.”
He runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head.
“Shouldn’t you go back to work? Before your . . . empire . . . crumbles?” I demand, taking my time to form the words.
“I have people taking care of business. It’s more important to be here for you.”
What does he think I know or can do for him that’s more important than his big-shot companies? Either way, he’s not turning it back on me like I’m the one who needs him. “I don’t even know you. Why should I care . . . if you stay?”