While I Was Away(51)

Adele sat up straight. Yes, yes she did know. She knew all about their place.

That's it.

She started rummaging around inside her purse, but when she didn't find anything useful, she yanked open the glove box and rifled through its contents.

“Everything okay?” Jones asked, his nurse voice in full effect.

“Peachy,” she grumbled, then gave a small cheer when she found an old pen. She shut the glove box, then turned to lean into the backseat.

She'd packed a small overnight bag, and from it she withdrew her sketch book. She was a graphic designer by trade, she'd been drawing her whole life. She hadn't done it in a while, though. They'd replaced her at her work about two months into her coma, and even though they'd offered her a new job, she'd turned them down. The settlement from the semi truck driver was more than enough to take care of her for a while. She didn't need to draw for a living anymore.

But still – when she'd been hurrying out of the apartment that morning, she'd grabbed her sketchbook on a whim.

Everything unfolds as it should.

“What's that?” Jones asked, trying to glance at the paper she was furiously scribbling across. She turned in her seat, pressing her back against the passenger door so he couldn't see what she was working on.

“I don't know how to explain things to you,” she talked in a rush, her pen flying across the paper. “I know I sound crazy, believe me, I know. But I can prove that I know you.”

“Ms. Reins,” he sighed.

“Adele,” she cut him off. He glanced at her again, his mouth set into a hard line.

“Adele,” he capitulated. “I know you may feel that way – victims of trauma often feel somewhat obligated towards the people who took care of them, but that doesn't mean-”

“I don't feel 'obligated',” she snapped, turning the sketchbook sideways, trying to get the lines right. She was working from memory, and she only had the one. She hoped she remembered everything correctly.

“I think after we get to the cabin, you should take a nap. I can call one of your brothers and we can arrange for them to come up here. Or I can get you a motel room,” he offered.

Adele decided to ignore him completely. She focused on her work, pausing occasionally to close her eyes and concentrate on the image in her mind's eye. Then she would go back to furiously sketching, willing her pen to beat the car to their destination.

And just as they pulled onto a long, shady gravel drive, she won.

“I've never really met you,” she said, tearing out the sheet of paper and folding it in half. “I've never met your father. I've never been here – I'd never even heard of this lake until yesterday.”

“I know,” Jones said. She took a deep breath and handed the folded piece of paper to him.

“But I know this place,” she breathed, and at the same time, he pulled the car into a large open area and parked.

In her memories, there wasn't the lake across the road, just barely visible through the dense trees. There wasn't the mailbox, either, but it looked fairly new – she doubted it had been here the last time Jones had visited. There also wasn't a single poppy to be found, not to mention no large cliff nearby.

And yet still, the cabin from her dreams. The place where they'd made their promises to find each other again, where they'd said their last goodbyes.

She was sitting in front of it.

“What is this?” Jones asked, clutching the paper in one hand while opening his door with the other.

“I can't believe this,” Adele ignored him and stumbled through her own open door. She clung to it as she stood up, her jaw dropping as she took in the cabin in front of them.

“It's nothing fancy, I know, not like the other houses around here. But it feels like a second home, I should really come more often and ...”

When his voice faded to nothing, Adele looked over at him. He had the paper unfolded and was holding it in both hands, staring at it. She took a deep breath, then slowly walked around the car so she could stand at his side. She glanced down at the paper, then back up at the cabin. Then down again.

“I told you,” she whispered, her voice shaky. “I know this place.”

She'd perfectly sketched his father's old cabin. Even down to the wind chime hanging near the door. As rushed as she'd been, she'd put in a lot of subtle details, like the crack in the bottom front window. The lopsided porch swing. The random patch of tulips growing beside the porch steps.

If only I'd had my colored pencils; I knew there'd be two oranges and one yellow.

“How did you do this?” Jones asked, and she noticed his knuckles were turning white.

“I ... I don't know,” she said. He turned on her.

“How did you do this!?” he demanded, startling her with his raised voice. “How do you know about this place? I've never taken anyone here before!”

“You've taken me here before!” she yelled back.

“That's impossible!” he snarled, and he threw her drawing to the ground. She scrambled to pick it up before he could walk over it.

“Please!” she cried, hurrying after him. “I couldn't make this up, could I?”

“You're a fucking stalker,” he grunted, jogging up the porch steps.