Thirty Nights (American Beauty #1)(111)

My hands shake so violently that the water splashes out of my glass. “And you think I can convince him?”

“Yes.” His conviction fills the room.

“Why?”

“Because he’s in love. He emailed me yesterday with a brief recap of the last few years to prepare for our meeting. He said he’s doing this for you. Your name was in almost every paragraph. He has a reason to fight this time.”

How could I refuse? I’d give my life if that would heal him. “I’ll do everything I can, Doctor—until my last second here.”

I notice his shoulders sink a fraction, and I realize he cares about Aiden.

“Can you tell me your opinion on Aiden’s prognosis? He seems to think this is a life sentence.”

“As long as Aiden doesn’t want to heal, there is no hope. But if he allows it, there’s an option even for someone with his severity and memory.”

“What is it?”

“In vivo exposure therapy. It means he’d be exposed to similar traumatic situations over and over again until he becomes desensitized. It’s been highly effective with PTSD. It can work with his general symptoms but also with his startle reflex. But he’d have to endure being startled as many times as it takes—thousands—until he acclimatizes to it.”

Suddenly, I wish his mother were here. If anyone knows how this feels, it’s she.

“Is there anything else I can do to help?”

“Well, he’ll feel profoundly guilty when he wakes up and realizes what happened. Let’s wait for clues from Aiden on how to handle it.”

“How will he be when he wakes up?”

“The drug I gave him—Versed—represses memories. He won’t remember anything after the drug, but he will remember everything before. It’s hard to predict how he’ll wake up. Sometimes, men are violent. For others, it exaggerates their real traits, like they lose their inhibitions. Often, they’ll be confused and frightened. We’ll see where Aiden falls.”

We debate back and forth and settle on a plan.

“Now if you don’t have any other questions, Elisa, may I suggest you get some sleep? I can prescribe something if you wish.”

“No, I’m fine, thank you. May I see Aiden now? May I touch him?”

“Yes. Nothing will wake him until Versed wears off.”

I sprint to the bedroom—feet fast, brain slow. The door is ajar. Benson is in the chair in the corner but my eyes are riveted on the bed. I lean against the wall, my legs unable to support me at the sight.

Aiden is on his back, his hands resting on his abs. His lips are parted. His chest rises almost imperceptibly—the only sign of life. The rest of him is inert. That vibrant life force he wields is absent.

Tears spring in my eyes, and I kneel by our bed. I place my hand over his heart. He doesn’t move. But his heartbeat is thudding at its regular, vital rhythm. It brings some air to my lungs. I explore his skin with my fingers. I kiss his forehead, nose, cheeks, chin, throat, saving his lips for last. When I kiss them, his weak breath caresses my mouth.

His skin is sticky and slightly cool. I can’t allow it. I take off his clothes, vaguely aware of Benson’s unobtrusive help. We don’t talk. I soak a washcloth in warm water and wipe off Aiden’s body. I dry him off and we dress him in his favorite navy pajamas and T-shirt. I don’t want him to wake up naked and exposed or in the same clothes he wore when he attacked me. Either will make him hate himself even more. When we finish, Benson puts his hand on my shoulder.

“I’ll give you a moment, Elisa,” he says, and slips out on the patio.

I leave the glass door open for air and sit at the foot of the bed. What will Aiden be like when he wakes up? Is he still going to want to fight for us? Or will he exile me like his mum? My stomach throbs more sharply than my arm. Mad for movement but unable to be away from him, I trudge to his closet where his scent is the strongest.

As always, my eyes find the beautiful wooden box on the tall armoire. Light shines upon it again, except it’s closer to the edge this time, as if someone looked at it recently. I rise on my tiptoes and pull and prod until I have it in my grip. Without breathing, I run my fingers over the ornate carving and open the burnished copper clasp.

Oh!

Tucked deep inside the navy velvet folds, are Aiden’s dog tag, his Purple Heart and a stack of yellowed, sealed envelopes. No marks, no dates, no stamps, not even an inkblot. Their paper is rough, gritty. Strange—the flap on the first envelope is torn open.

I lift the flap and fish out a scrap of paper folded in half. A trickle of sand spills from the fold onto my palm—different than other sand I’ve seen. Reddish, darker, coarser. I swirl it with my finger, forming a vortex like the one spiraling in my chest, and tip it back into the empty envelope. Then I open the letter. And I sink on the closet floor.

April 13, 2003

My All,

I thought I’d feel idiotic writing to an imaginary woman. I was right. And wrong. To whom else does a man write on a night like this? Not to his mother—she would only weep. Not to a friend—he already knows. He writes to his woman—because she forgives.

It’s done, love. Baghdad is razed to the ground. No bridges. No library. No zoo. I don’t know how many men, women or children are dead, or how many of them from my hand.

Marshall asks God and Jasmine for forgiveness, but I don’t do well with God, so I’m creating you. You walk in beauty like the night…(even Byron doesn’t do you justice).