Amber's Embrace (22 page)

She had been wrong about him, she knew now. His words of love had been shallow, motivated by a need he had felt at that particular moment. That the moment had extended over an entire weekend held no hope for the future. Corey had heard correctly. He was a superb lover, though he didn’t stick around very long, once he had gotten what he sought. But Corey had said that he rarely spoke words of love … why had he to her, then turned to another as quickly?

Crying silently, she pulled to the side of the road once more. Where she was, she neither knew nor cared. There was nothing to return to, nothing to return for. The car found its way north, toward the communities of Marblehead, Gloucester, and Rockport, but the pain of the shore and its memories drove her further west. Hunger was nonexistent; when she needed gas, she stopped for that. In the end, she came full circle, returning to Dover in early evening simply because her muscles felt cramped and tired. Yet the ringing of the phone, audible even as she approached the front door, drove her away once more, this time toward her bicycle and the relaxation it always brought. Angrily she shunned the helmet which she had worn since
he
had first presented it to her; if he could be so duplistic regarding his emotions, she reasoned achingly, he was no more to be trusted regarding his own quirks. She had never worn a helmet before she had met him; she would not wear one now.

Anger drove her to reckless speed along the fast-dimming streets. Heedless of the encroaching dusk, she pedaled on, heading one way then the other, crying out when every spot turned out to be one they had passed together. Desperation bid her to take a wholly new turn, moving out onto roads headed east, further in toward the heart of the city. Perhaps the activity would divert her, she mused skeptically.

But she only grew hotter and more tired, finally stopping to rest at a landscaped rotary on the outskirts of Brookline. The automobile headlights failed to spotlight her as she sat, small and insignificant, on the soft grass, tugging absently at one dark strand after the other, remembering the healthy feel of
his
hair, as she had combed her fingers through it in bed late yesterday morning.

How had she let this happen to her a second time? she demanded in disgust. How could she have been such a fool? How could she have fallen for his line? She had been no more than a physical conquest to him; his words had merely paved the way for their lovemaking. Had he thought that she would not have given in to him without those words of love? That she would have, only she knew! So taken had she been at the time, she would have given him anything he had asked, purely on the basis of her own love for him. That he had professed similar feeling for her and then had belied it so blatantly only made the loss a harder one to bear. In those two brief but divine days, she had held hope for a future filled with the richness of love, as she had always wanted it. Now, that future lay in a shattered heap on the floor of his office. He must have planned the whole scene, she gasped in sudden realization, as tears flowed freely from her eyes, blurring the car lights together into a glaring track of misery.

Mindlessly, she sat on that lonely spot of grass, the whir of the traffic moving steadily around her. If there was danger in her sitting, solitary and vulnerable, open to attack from the malcontents of the world, she couldn’t have cared. In the maelstrom, only one idea held any meaning. She would go home. For the first time since she had left Maryland to attend college with Ron, she would return, alone, to her parents. If that was the only source of comfort, she would seek it out. The pain she felt at this latest catastrophe was too much for her to bear alone. Yes, she would return to Maryland until Scottie was due to fly home; only then would she come back here to make further decisions. The Public Relations department would simply have to understand that she had an urgent personal problem. She would have had only a few more weeks at the hospital, anyway.

These reasonings draining her, she mounted her bicycle and began the long ride back home. It was as though, having made the temporary decision to fly to Maryland in the morning, her mind was now a blank. Utter weakness spread through her, in repercussion of the horrible day that had been, as she forced herself onward, staying as close to the right side of the road as possible, adhering to all of the traffic rules and regulations. Pedaling further, yet seeming no closer to Dover, she wondered how and why she had come this far knowing that the return trip would be all the more tiring. Doggedly, she pushed on, shifting raggedly at the foot of each hill, inevitably climbing off before the top to walk the rest of the way, her thigh and calf muscles aching in rebellion, before the downhill gave her a moment’s coasting respite.

Cars passed by occasionally, giving her leeway when the reflectors on her wheels caught the headlights. When one truck, a pickup, came frighteningly close and she swerved to miss it, nearly losing her balance on the shoulder of the road, she thought little of it. When a similar truck roared by a second time, closer now and accompanied by catcalls from decidedly male and perhaps drunken voices, she began to wonder. When it happened a third time, she knew herself to be the object of their game. The large side-view mirror barely grazed her elbow; trembling, she slowed, then stopped, following the taillights until they turned off onto another side street. Would the pickup come by for another swing? Should she take a different road, herself? Exhausted, she finally started off again on her course, fatigue preventing her from taking a detour that would add even the smallest amount of time to her destination. If she heard the truck come by again, she would simply stop and wait for it to pass.

Her ploy must have been anticipated, for this time, the pickup waited, patiently, behind the cover of another car, slowing as that car passed her, then gunning its own engine to terrify her. Panicked hands gripped the handlebars as she struggled to maintain her balance. The noise of the engine was on top of her before she could find a smooth place to pull over and stop. In a horrifying swat and a streak of pain, the side-view mirror hit her arm, forcing her to lose control of the bicycle, as she careened off the road toward a thicket of trees, where her front tire came to an abrupt stop, throwing her forward against a solid mass, then into a slump on the hard ground. There was pain and confusion, suddenly all physical, as some inner sense told her she was badly hurt. Unable to move, the last thing of which she was aware was calling out for
him.
He was a doctor; surely he would help her. “Zachary!… Zachary!… Zachary!…” she screamed, until her voice trailed off into the silence of unconsciousness.

*   *   *

Her awakening was strange. It occurred slowly, mingling with a pain in her arm and her head. Unable to move, much less open her eyes, she could nonetheless hear the bustle of activity around her. Words and voices filtered through her daze, some more familiar than others, all with a note of concern that she felt had to relate to her. Every instinct within her struggled to make itself known, but much as she tried to speak, to reassure them that she was all right, no sound emerged. When the sounds about her grew quieter, she slept, hopeful that the morning would bring her the strength to rouse herself from this stupor. But whether it was morning or night, she didn’t know. The voices swarmed around her again; still she could not respond. Puzzled by her apparent paralysis, she fell into a defensive sleep, unable to cope with her condition, any more than the doctors apparently could.

With each awakening came more familiar images, all from the past, most bringing pain. Her mind conjured up the pictures her eye could not, presenting before her a broken kaleidoscope of her life. She saw her parents and Ron and Scott; desperately, she cried out for him, yet no sound came. She saw her college days, the early days of her marriage, and felt the betrayal as the union fell apart. She saw her home in Dover, Scott at home plate, the first of her by-lines to appear in the local magazines. And she saw Zachary. It was his voice that called to her, over and over and over again.

“Amber, can you hear me?” it asked. “Amber, please try to speak. Do you hear what I’m saying? Amber?” Her brain issued the order to answer him, yet it went unheeded. One part of her cheered in triumph, sensing the pain that her silence brought this man. It was just dessert, that small part reasoned. Why should she speak with him? He had betrayed her! Let him wallow in guilt …

But there were the memories of urges and feelings, desires and wants, all bidding her to reach out and touch him. His pain was her own; there was no escaping that fact. If only she controlled her body … but some other force did now. Try as she might, she could not break through the barrier of that semiconsciousness. When the frustration grew, she drifted to sleep again, awakening to a jolt of pain at the mercy of one probing hand or the other. Begging for relief, she remained silent, only able to listen and hear, a helpless spectator in an unknown arena.

Over a period of time, voices became familiar. There were doctors and nurses who stayed nearby, checking on her constantly, talking to her, expecting no answer yet always hoping. And there was the voice of Zachary, by her ear more often than any of the others throughout this ordeal. She listened closely to his conversation, trying to interpret the medical dialogue between him and his colleagues, unable to determine much beyond their own inability to do anything more. Zachary’s words to her were saved for quieter times, when the drone of other voices had moved elsewhere.

“I’m right here, Amber. You’re going to be fine,” she heard him tell her. “If you can hear me, blink. Can you hear me?”

It was another lie, she decided, his assurance that she was going to be all right. Lies, all lies. She couldn’t believe him. And she would certainly
not
give him the satisfaction of a blink! Stubbornly, she refused to acknowledge her hearing of him, though whether she would have been able to produce that one, simple wink, she did not know. She
did
know an emptiness when he finally left her bedside—an aching emptiness that had nothing to do with her physical injuries.

“It’s all right, Mrs. MacLaine,” one of the familiar female voices came softly through to her. “Tears are a good sign. You keep crying and soon you’ll be talking and laughing with us.” A gentle hand soothed the tear from her cheek and her hair from her forehead, comforting her into a shallow sleep. When Amber awoke once more, the voices were more clear, the conversation more riveting. Every ounce of her strength was channeled, suddenly, toward the speakers.

“Any change, Zach?” It was a voice she knew she had heard before, a female voice, yet not instantly recognizable. The next was male and as familiar to her as her own, though tired and tense.

“Nothing yet. We just don’t know…”

“It hasn’t been that long—”

“Two days in a coma is enough! There’s no physical reason why she isn’t awake and active.” His growing agitation was seized on by his companion.

“Take it easy, Zach. Your getting all upset won’t help.” Her voice was soft and steady, patient yet insistent. “She needs your reassurance. Chances are she may be able to hear you when you speak to her.”

“I have. She makes no response. Nothing. The nurse thought she saw tears last night, but it may have only been a reflexive watering of the eye.”

As a silence bit into the conversation, Amber realized where she had heard that other voice before. Zachary’s next words confirmed that discovery. “This was all my fault, Ginny. I should have told her about our relationship. When she saw you in my arms the other day, she must have died inside. She’s already been through something like this before. I should have told her…”

One part of Amber wanted to tune out again, the other demanded her continued presence. This wasn’t at all what she wanted to hear. Better the meaningless words of encouragement from Zachary … than this sordid confession. Helplessly, however, she listened on.

“
I
was the one who asked you not to say anything to anyone, Zach. You can blame me, not yourself. If I hadn’t been as selfish, as demanding of your time, there never would have been the misunderstanding.” Amber’s senses grew more alert to catch the quieter response from Zachary as he evidently turned his head away from her to face Ginny Warner.

“You’re my closest cousin, Ginny. I have always wanted to help you. It’s been rough for you … trying for that appointment. You needed someone to talk to, and I was there. No, I should have been more insistent to Amber that she had no cause for jealousy. I should have told her we were related, even without revealing the extent of your professional dilemma.” His voice returned to the bed. “I blew it. Let’s face it—I blew it!”

In the silence that ensued, Amber struggled to comprehend what she had just heard. Had she been wrong all along, after all?

“You really do love her, don’t you?” Ginny’s voice came to her ears as it was directed toward Zachary.

His words were choked with defeat, low but clearly audible. “Very, very much. I wish you had gotten to know her, Ginny. She’s warm and fun and loving … so loving…” His voice trailed off to join Amber’s thoughts in instant replay of their weekend in Provincetown.

“I
will
get to know her, Zach,” the soft voice insisted. “She’ll come out of it, you’ll see.”

“Only if she wants to, and I’m not sure she does, after what happened on Monday. I don’t know if you can understand, Ginny, but when I first met Amber, she was lovely and captivating and very obviously lonely. Oh, yes, her son had just flown off to California to be with his dad, just as Liz had left me. But it went beyond her son’s absence to something deeper. I saw it because I felt it, myself. When there is that whole lot of love to give and no one to give it to, to share it with, there is a certain look of pain which one has. Call it indigestion of the emotions, if you will.” He let out a harsh laugh at his semblance of a joke, then sobered. “Amber had never been with another man, other than her husband. I wish I could have claimed that kind of morality.” His voice lowered, as he went on more intimately. Amber wondered whether it was, indeed, her own pulse that had quickened, as she strained to hear every word.