Last Summer(16)

She shakes her head. “I was hoping to find something that would help me remember. I’m also curious if there are any assignments I’ve forgotten.” She gestures at the mess on the floor, then lets her arms flop against her sides, hopeless. “Why do you think I forgot?”

“Uh . . . you’re in shock?” He snags a stress ball from her desk and squeezes it. “Have you called the psychiatrist yet?”

“Therapy’s not going to bring Simon back.” She’s not antitherapy, but after her parents’ deaths and then Grace’s, everyone’s solution was “get therapy.”

Been there, done that.

Though she did promise Damien she’d go. In fact, they’re supposed to go together. Doctor’s orders.

“I’ll call her later,” Ella responds. She scoops up the folders.

“Attagirl.” He smiles at her and then his tone changes. “I’m worried about you.”

“I know,” Ella says, then gives him a hint of a smile, whispering, “Thank you.”

She drops the files on her desk, then bends over to retrieve more. She straightens quickly, and blood rushes from her head to her stomach. She weaves, overcome by a sinking sensation deep in her belly, and grips the desk for balance.

Andrew’s on his feet in a flash. He grasps her arms to steady her. “Hey there, you okay?”

Ella pushes the hair from her eyes. It takes a moment for her head to stop spinning and her stomach to settle.

Her brother eyes her. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Last night . . .”

“That explains the attitude.” He grins. “Good thing I brought lunch.”

They park themselves on the barstools at the kitchen island. Andrew passes her a white cardboard carton and paper-wrapped chopsticks, not bothering with plates and forks. “Veggie chow mein.”

“My fave.” Ella opens the carton and digs in.

Andrew snaps apart his chopsticks and rubs them together to remove the splinters. “Everything okay with you and Damien?”

“Aside from my head case and losing the baby? I think so. Why?”

“I didn’t want to say anything last night with Damien around. But you seemed agitated the last time I saw you at the hospital.”

“How do you mean?” She eyes him curiously.

“You were crying. Damien looked like he wanted to punch the wall. You kept going off about some sort of promise. You wanted Damien to do something for you.”

She frowns at him. “Do you know what it was?”

“No idea. You guys didn’t tell me.”

“Did you ask?”

“And give your husband something to hit, like my face?” he says, holding up his chopsticks and carton of broccoli beef in defense. “Not a chance.”

“Damien wouldn’t hurt you.” He might be ruthless in the boardroom, but Ella has never seen him get violent.

Andrew seems doubtful. “You don’t remember the look on his face.”

Okay, Damien could be intimidating. She’ll give him that.

“When was this?” she asks.

“Wednesday night.”

The night before her memory loss. The night of the commotion Nurse Jillian talked about. What happened that night?

Not only that, what happened right before the accident? Where had she been driving to? Why’d she leave right after dinner? Did she even eat the pork loin she’d cooked that night?

“Did I say anything else at the hospital?” she asks, curious.

“Like what?”

“I think Damien and I were arguing before my accident. I’m not positive. It’s just a feeling.”

“You didn’t mention anything to me. Have you asked Damien?”

Ella shakes her head. She chews a noodle, contemplating. She’ll ask him tonight.

“So you and Damien are good?”

“Yeah.” She hopes they are.



That evening Ella showers, and after, as she towels off, she catches her reflection in the full-length mirror. This time, she doesn’t avoid her image. She drops the towel and takes a good, hard three-sixty-degree look, from her full breasts to her wider waistline and distended, hollow abdomen. She gingerly touches the paper sutures taped over her fresh scar. Lynn said the redness and bruising around the area is normal and that the incision line will still be purple up to six months after the C-section. Eventually it’ll start fading to a pale pink. “Hardly noticeable and below your bikini line,” she reassured.

Turning, Ella looks at her calves and backside. She’s lost muscle tone. She probably traded laps from the Marina Green to the Golden Gate Bridge for prenatal yoga sessions. Definitely not at the intensity she’s conditioned for. Used to be, anyway, she thinks with a grimace.

Turning back around, she cups a hand over her scar. “I’m sorry,” she whispers to the life that is no longer there.

A fleeting memory, more of a feeling, touches her mind. The sensation of butterfly wings, the faint press of something against the inside of her abdomen wall. She starts to cry, turning away from the mirror and straight into Damien.

“Sorry,” he says, his voice gruff.

“How long have you been standing there?” She’d been so focused that she didn’t hear him come in. Embarrassed, Ella picks up the towel and wraps it around her torso. She doesn’t want him to see her body like this. Misshapen and unfamiliar to her own eyes. She hardly recognizes herself.