Burying Water (7 page)

“You touched my stuff, girl.”

The groggy accusation cuts through the darkness, startling me. Ginny hasn’t spoken since Amber wheeled her back into our room several hours ago.

“I thought maybe if I stuck that square in a heavy book, it’d flatten the pattern for you,” I explain, clearing my throat several times, suddenly nervous. I wait, staring at the parking lot light outside my window. I never draw my bed curtains fully at night. The space feels too small, too confining, and, with each creak of the door, a part of me fears the person who might enter my room.

Finally, I hear a low mutter of, “I don’t like people touching my stuff. You can’t be doing that.”

“I’m sorry. I was just trying to help.” I dare add in a light tone, “It looks like it’s going to be a beautiful quilt when it’s done.” Okay, I could be lying about that. I have no idea what that square was. All I could see were patches of red and orange and yellow. But her needlework is tidy and precise.

The sound of metal rings scraping across a rod fills the dark hospital room, revealing the old woman from the chest up, her eyes narrowed to slits. “Is this an act?”

“Excuse me?”

“This memory thing of yours. Are you lying?” I can’t tell if she’s asking or accusing.

“I wish I were,” I answer honestly.

“Don’t wish that, silly girl,” she snaps. “You should be happy.”

“Happy?” I burst out in shock. People have given me a lot of pieces of advice over these past few months. This has not been one of them.

The way I must be glaring at her now doesn’t seem to dissuade her. “Yes, happy. Happy that you can spend the rest of your life in ignorant bliss. That you don’t have to lie in bed with your memories—the smell of his breath, the feel of his weight on you, the sound of his voice when he yells at you to stop crying. Because those memories are like demons. They’ll chase you, and when they grab on, they hold on tight. They break you. You get to relive them over and over and”—her voice drops to a hiss—“
over
again.”

“But what about . . .” My voice trails off. She’s not talking about forgetting my entire life.

Just a very specific part of it.

My stomach drops as understanding slams into me. It would explain her reaction to the male nurse today. “You were . . . it happened to you, too,” I stammer.

“And I’ve spent almost fifty years wishing I could forget it. So be happy, girl, because if you ever wake up to your reality, I promise you’ll be wishin’ you could forget all over again.”

The curtain abruptly closes. Clearly, our conversation is over.

The first hints of blue appear in the sky when I finally manage to drift off, the old woman’s words a dark shawl of unease hanging over me.

Wondering what kind of demons may be lying in wait for me.

NINE

Jesse

then

“You changed your mind awfully quick.”

“I’m allowed.” That repetitive, irritating thrum of music hits me as we step around a group of guys in suits.

“If you’re gonna make this a habit, you’d better go buy some new shirts. Guys aren’t supposed to swap clothes like this. It’s weird.” Boone flicks the collar of a black button-down that I borrowed from him.

“It won’t be a habit. I just feel like hanging out with you tonight is all.”

He snorts. “Bullshit.” I trail him to the bar, where he waves down Priscilla. “Two of the usual, babe,” Boone orders, flashing her a suggestive smile. I caught him practicing that smile in the mirror once.

When she lays them on the counter, I throw down cash to cover it. I don’t want Alexandria’s husband paying for my drinks tonight.

Alexandria.

Since she climbed into a Hummer with her husband this afternoon, her name’s been dancing through my head, followed quickly by her smile. And then a strange tingle skitters down the back of my neck and through my body.

The only reason I came tonight is because I’m hoping she’s here.

With a salute toward Priscilla—promising myself that this is the only drink I’m having—I head with Boone to the same alcove at the back of the lounge. The way Boone walks toward it, I know that Viktor and his friends own this table.

Sure enough, they’re already here.

And so is Alexandria.

My heart jumps when I see her. She’s sitting next to Viktor, her hands folded on the table, the relaxed air she had earlier today traded in for the hard mask. Instead of a blue sparkly dress, this time she’s wearing red, to match her bright lips, and her long, white-blond hair has smooth waves in it.

She definitely doesn’t look cheap now.

She looks like a damn movie star.

And her husband has his back turned to her, in deep conversation with the same big blond guy as last time.

“Rust!” Boone dispenses with the pleasantries as I stand slightly back, watching Alexandria’s eyes lift to meet the newcomers.

They find me.

And the veil drops for just a second, long enough to reveal a glimmer of surprise.

I smile at her and she dips her head. I have enough common sense to pull my attention away from her and move it to Rust before anyone notices the exchange. If they did and they asked me what it meant, I’d have no idea what to say because I don’t understand it myself yet. All I keep thinking is that she made a point of finding out my name.

“Good seeing you here again, Jesse. How’re the guys treating you?” Rust asks.

“They haven’t mistaken me for a nurse yet, so there’s that.”

That earns loud laughter from Rust as he slaps his nephew on the back. “Here, sit.” He gestures at the same chairs as last time. I get the impression that we need the invitation. Not just anyone walks up to
this
table.

I take my seat.

Viktor breaks free from his conversation to regard me with an even look. “Jesse. I missed you at the garage earlier, when I was picking up Alexandria. I was hoping we could talk.”

“Sorry. I was probably on break.” I wasn’t. I was lurking in the window, avoiding conversation with him while I could study her.

Viktor snorts and then mutters something in Russian before saying, “I should have bought this woman a farm truck, the way she drives.” Alexandria’s lips purse together but she says nothing. “Do you know how many women would love to have that car?”

“I didn’t ask for it, Viktor,” she answers in a low, cautious voice, her eyes on her hands in front of her. “I would have been happy with a farm truck.”

I’m somehow not surprised to see Viktor’s jaw tense. “You seem happy spending all of my money, too. Maybe I should stop giving you cash to spend?” Reaching out, he grabs her chin and forces her face up to meet his. “See how happy you are then.”

Well, that escalated quickly.

I glance around the table to see everyone busy with their own conversations. Are they truly oblivious to this? Or am I just too in tune?

Viktor lets go of her chin, the simmering storm in his eyes dissipating as fast as it came. He drifts back into his private conversation with the guy next to him as if nothing happened at all, leaving Alexandria to sit like a statue, doing her best to keep her eyes on the tall glass of water in front of her. I can’t help but suck back the vodka Boone and Rust keep pouring from the bottle in the middle of the table.

Finally, she slides out of the booth without a word to her husband, her eyes grazing me as she goes. I fight the urge to watch her glide toward the restroom. The urge to get up and chase after her is even stronger. But that would be too obvious. So, I pull my phone out and pretend to go through my messages, when I’m really just watching the clock. I decide six minutes and twelve seconds is long enough and then I slip away. I need to hit the can and grab a water anyway so I’m not an idiot at work tomorrow.

My timing couldn’t be more perfect. Alexandria is gliding down the long, narrow hall from the restrooms, her long red dress flowing around her legs, the material parting dangerously high up her thigh. I struggle not to stare as it spreads open with each step.
Damn
, Viktor’s a lucky son of a bitch.

Her eyes lock on me immediately and they don’t let go as we close the distance between us.

And then I realize that she’s not going to stop.

I react without thinking, reaching out to slip my hand around the far side of her waist. “Hey.” I’ve never been shy, but I’m usually smarter than this. Must be the alcohol.

“Jesse.” My name sounds breathless on her lips. I like it. Her eyes dart behind me for a split second before returning to mine, her hand reaching up to gently retrieve my hand from her body. She’s radiating that same nervousness that poured off her the last time I was here, when she was late and Viktor was pissed. It’s so palpable, it’s making
me
nervous.

“Are you all right?”

“I’ll be fine. I just . . .” Her brow furrows as something that looks a lot like recognition swirls behind those beautiful irises.

I asked her that exact same question the flat-tire night. “What?”

She gives her head a small shake. “Nothing, I just . . . nothing.” Her eyes drop to my mouth before stealing another glance behind me. “I have to go.” I watch her bare, delicate back as she walks away, her heels clicking fast against the wood, that heavy dose of perfume clinging to my nose. It’s starting to grow on me.

I pick the farthest urinal in the men’s room, closing my eyes and letting my head tip back as I consider my options. Should I tell her I’m the guy who saved her that night on the side of the road? Would she want to know? Especially given the way her husband treats her. Obviously the guy’s a douche. But she married him. She
is
married to him. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, coming here. Roadside kiss or not, nothing is going to happen.

The door squeaks open. A moment later I sense someone take the urinal next to me and I sigh. “Five other spots available. Just saying.” Normally, any conversation at the urinal is not cool by me, even to cuss someone out. But I’m in a bad mood.

“Then I would have to yell to talk to you.”

I recognize that slight Russian accent and the smooth voice.

“So, about my business proposition. What do you know about Aston Martin DB5s?”

Something tells me blowing off Viktor Petrova right now would be a bad idea. Even if that means I have to talk over the sound of piss hitting porcelain. “They’re hard to fix.”

“Yes.” I hear the smile in the word. “And they are apparently even harder to rebuild. I have wanted one all my life and have finally found the perfect one. A ’sixty-four model. It is sitting in my garage. Would you be interested in bringing it back to life for me?”

Found.
I wonder if that’s code for
stole
.

It takes a moment for me to realize that I’m still standing there with my dick in my hands while he has already finished and is moving to the sink. Quickly fixing myself, I head over to join him.
No, I wouldn’t. You’re an asshole
.

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

You’re an asshole who thinks you can buy me like you probably buy everything else, including your wife.

“Certainly enough for that car you wanted. What was it, again?”

Fuck.
The guy knows which carrots to dangle. “’Sixty-nine Barracuda.” Now he has me interested. “I’d have to see it, see what shape it’s in.”

Viktor smiles at my reflection in the mirror. “That is fine. Mr. Miller will tell you where to go. Have a good night.” He strolls out of the washroom, leaving me staring at his tall, lean form in his tailored charcoal suit as he exits.

I’ll be
told
where to go. I’ll bet that’s how Viktor operates. Well, fuck him. I don’t operate like that. Still, rebuild a ’64 DB5
and
make enough to get myself my car? I’m going to have a hard time turning that one down, even if he’s an asshole.

When I reach the table, Viktor and Alexandria are gone. There’s really no need for me to be here. I grab my jacket off the back of my chair.

Boone frowns at me. “Where are you going? Priscilla and her friend are getting off soon. They want to come by for a drink.”

“I’m out.” I tell him what happened in the bathroom. By the time I’m done, his mouth is hanging open.

“Rust tells me he’s got one helluva vintage car collection. You’ll blow your load if you get to see it.”

“We’ll see,” I say as I head out, wondering if blowing my load over Viktor’s cars will be more acceptable than wanting to blow it over his wife.

TEN

Jane Doe

now

“There’s no reason to keep you here longer, Jane.”

Dr. Alwood sits on the empty bed beside me, stripped of sheets after Ginny’s departure early this morning, delivering the news that I knew was coming. Nausea bubbles up inside me.

“We’ll want to continue some outpatient physio and your visits with Dr. Weimer, of course, but hospital administration won’t approve the additional medical bills for keeping you here. You don’t
really
want to be stuck in a hospital, staring at these same beige walls, do you?”

I bob my head absently, the desire to wrap my sheet around me in a cocoon overpowering. The little that I know in life is about to be taken away from me. I get it, though. Dr. Alwood, Amber, the hospital—they’ve done all that they could for me. I’m not their problem anymore. Now I’m my own problem.

If my chest were still hooked up to the heart monitor, that beeping would be going wild right now.

What the hell do I do next?

“Jane? Are you okay?”

Pain shoots through my jaw as I clench my teeth.
I really hate that name.
“I just . . .” Hot tears begin rolling down my cheeks. “I don’t know where I’m going to go.”

Understanding takes over her face, followed by a look of sympathy. “Did you think we’d just open the doors and kick you to the curb?”

I feel a salty droplet reach my top lip.

She clears her throat. “I’ve been looking into a few options and I see two. The first is a shelter. There are two
all right
ones in the Bend area. You’d have to share space with the other single females, so there’s really no privacy. Administration has already called them. They can accommodate you.”

I wipe away the tears with the back of my hand. “Are you trying to sell me on this shelter?”

A soft smile touches her lips. “No. I’m not a fan myself of option one.”

“Okay. So what’s option two?”

She pauses. “What did you think of Ginny Fitzgerald?”

“I . . . uh . . .” The sudden change of subject has me stammering. And what do I say? The woman is her neighbor, after all. “She’s not the friendliest person I’ve ever met, but my sample size is rather limited.”

She grins. “Fair enough. She was a bit crotchety, wasn’t she? When she’s on her own turf, she’s not
that
bad. Coming in here was a big deal for her. It took me months of convincing and making special arrangements to get her to have the surgery done.”

“You told her about me.” I don’t mean for it to sound like an accusation, but that is exactly what it is.

“Yes, I did. I realize that is not only a complete violation of my professional position; it’s also a violation of your trust.” Dr. Alwood has the decency to look sheepish. “But it was important that I tell her. You see, Ginny lives alone on an old ranch next door to us. She’s been there all her life. Her parents both died years ago and she has no family to speak of. She keeps to herself. As I’m sure you can guess, she doesn’t make friends easily.” I chuckle. Thankfully, she joins in. “Anyway, she has an apartment above her garage that I thought might work well for you. For now, at least. It’ll afford you some privacy and quiet. You’ll have us right next door, should anything happen; you can keep an eye on Ginny—she’s nearing sixty-five—and help her out with the horses. God knows she needs the help and she won’t let anyone step foot on her property besides Gabe, Amber, or myself.”

I note that she doesn’t include her son, Jesse, on that list of acceptable trespassers.

“Have you already talked to her about this? Because I’m not so sure she’s going to like this idea.” I’m not sure
I
like this idea.

“She has already agreed to it.” She adds after a pause, “She likes you. A lot.”

“What?”

All Dr. Alwood does is shrug and smile. But then she frowns. “She says she had a good talk with you last night? About your . . . similar pasts.”

The ball of fear that’s taken up residence in my chest since our conversation swells. What if Ginny’s right? I’ve been sitting in this hospital room for months now, hoping and praying that one morning I’ll wake up and feel
whole
again. I’ll know what my parents’ names are and whether I look more like my mom or my dad; I’ll know if I went to the prom like the girls on television and, if I did, who my date was. I’ll remember my first kiss, my summer vacations, my best friend’s name.

I’ll remember
my
name.

But what if I can never be whole again?

What if all those little bits that make up me get lost, overshadowed by one dark memory? My last memory, the one that made me want to forget everything else in the first place. Will I be able to escape the kind of damage that experience can cause? “Do you think that I’ll turn out like Ginny?” I finally whisper. Bitter and cowering in the presence of men.

Eternally afraid.

“Ginny’s always been a little bit ‘off,’ from what Gabe remembers of her, even when he was a young child. Part of it is just her. Her little ‘eccentricities.’ ” She pauses and then admits, “But part of it isn’t.”

“She didn’t tell me much. What happened to her?”

“She’s never talked to me or anyone else about it. I only know because Gabe knows. If it hadn’t been especially traumatic, I’m guessing no one would ever have found out.” She pauses. “That she actually brought it up with you says something. Maybe one day she’ll tell you the rest.”

Maybe. There’s only one reason I can think of for her to divulge her own dark secret. It would be on the day that I remember mine.