The Bringer
Page 32I gaze down at her. She looks just as I remembered, if not more beautiful. She’s breathing deeply. The rise and fall of her chest is mesmerising, her face so peaceful, I’m almost afraid to wake her.
Carefully I perch on the edge of her bed and glance down at the book in her hand. She must have fallen asleep reading. I feel an instant rush of love for her. I gently pull it from her hand and reach back, placing it on the table by her bed. Then I brush her hair off her face with my fingers. “Luce, wake up, baby,” I say quietly, cradling her face with my hand.
She murmurs in her sleep and turns her face into my hand, nuzzling it. I stroke the length of her nose with my thumb. “Luce baby, wake up.”
Her breathing suddenly halts and her eyes flick open, bright blue and filled with panic. I withdraw my hand. She leaps backwards in her bed, her back pressed up against the wall.
“Who – who are you?” she says, wide eyes flicking from me to Isabel, then back to me again. There’s not a trace of recognition in them.
Okay, so I wasn’t as prepared for this as I thought I might be. I know I was aware she wouldn’t know me, but Jesus, it really fucking hurts – A LOT – to have her looking at me like I’m a stranger. It’s like a knife in the chest.
Pushing all my pain aside, I focus on her, focus on how she must be feeling right now. Pretty freaked out I’m guessing.
“Shh,” I say gently, raising a calming hand. “It’s okay, you’re safe. We’re here to help you get your memory back . . .”
. . . I hope.
Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.
Wuthering Heights – Emily Bronte
Chapter 21
A New Beginning
“Hey Pommie.”
I look up from my magazine to see a smiling Fen coming through the door and my spirits instantly lift.
“Hi,” I say, surprised. “I wasn’t expecting to see you. I thought you were going out for dinner tonight for your mum’s birthday?”
“I am. I had to come past the hospital on my way to the restaurant so I thought I’d drop this in for you.” He hands me a battered looking book and sits himself down into the chair by my bed.
I notice he looks different. What is it? I eye him carefully, but I can’t see anything specifically standing out. Understandably he looks a little smarter than usual. He’s wearing black jeans and a fitted grey shirt. And his hair’s tidier than he normally wears it. It's usually all mussed up. Actually, he looks quite handsome. I mean, I know Fen’s good looking, I’d have to be blind not to notice, but tonight he looks, dare I say it, hot? Nerves flutter through my stomach at the thought. Okay, that was weird.
“Thanks,” I say with a delay and begin to examine the front cover of the book. ‘The Beach’ – oh it’s the one he was telling me about yesterday – and, no, he’s not being ironic. Apparently it’s really good and has nothing whatsoever to do with amnesiacs turning up on it. I’m reading a lot at the moment, anything I can get my hands on really. Well, it’s not like I have much else to do and it’s nice to escape off into someone else’s fantasy for a while. It distracts me away from my own depressing reality.
“You didn’t have to bring it now, though,” I say putting the book down on the bed. “I could have waited till tomorrow. It’s not like I haven’t got plenty to keep me busy.” I point towards the stack of books piled up on the table.
He shrugs. “It’s no problem.” He kicks his shoes off, puts his feet up on my bed, rests his head back on the chair and closes his eyes.
“Hmm, very.”
“Hard day at work?”
“Yep.” A lazy smile forms on his lips and he opens his eyes. It still surprises me just how blue they actually are. They’re striking in contrast with his black hair and olive skin. They look almost luminous in this fluorescent lighting. “I had the early shift,” he tells me, “then ended up having to stay late ‘cause there was a problem with one of the boats.” He yawns loudly. “Could really do with going home to bed but it’s my mum's birthday, so what can you do?” He stretches his arms over his head. His shirt rides up and I find myself involuntarily glancing down. Wow, his stomach is really smooth and toned . . .
“So how’s your day been?” he asks.
“Hmm?”
“I said – how’s your day been?”
I realise I’m staring and instantly come to my senses. I see a flicker of amusement pass over his face.
“Oh, yeah, good,” I smile.
He picks the remote off the table and turns the TV on. I glance back down at my magazine.
Actually that was a lie.
It’s just been another pointless day of nothing. I’ve been here four weeks now, and after all the testing and neuro-psychotherapy sessions, there’s still absolutely nothing happening in this stupid brain of mine. I’ve not even had one meagre, teeny tiny little memory resurface. So, yes, I still have absolutely no idea who I am – was – or whatever.
The only memories I do have are the ones I’ve made since I arrived here. And the only good ones I've made are when Fen visits, which he does everyday, and has done since that day. We’ve become really good friends and, honestly, I don’t know what I would do without him. I would never tell him this, mainly because it sounds so lame, but seeing him is the only good part of my day, the best part, in fact, because the rest of the time I’m miserable and lonely.
I know I need to start moving forward and I have been thinking about the future a lot lately. I can’t spend the rest of my life like this, I can’t keep hanging out for the past, hoping it’ll return. I need to start living for now.
“You okay?” he asks. I look up from my magazine to find his eyes surveying me.
“Yeah.” I close my magazine and chuck it onto the table. “Actually, I’ve been thinking.”
He looks at me with interest. “About?”
“Well I’ve been thinking that maybe Dr Woods is right, you know, maybe it is time I start moving forward and I thought the best way to do that would be to – you know give myself an identity like he said – give myself a name.”
“Aww, but I like 'Pommie'.” He flashes me a cheeky grin.
I give him a wry look.
“I’m kidding!” He holds up a hand. “No, that’s really great,” he enthuses. “So, do you have one in mind?”
“So what is it?” he asks, pulling a packet of mints from his jeans pocket. He opens them up, pops one in his mouth and offers them to me. I shake my head.
“You know what, it doesn’t matter,” I backtrack. “I mean I’m not a hundred percent sure that I might go for it anyway, so . . .”
He gives me an inquisitive look. “Why won’t you tell me?”
I look away from him, fully aware of how stupid I’m being and how I’ve now managed to make it more of a deal than it actually ever was.
I begin fiddling with my hair. “You might laugh,” I say quietly, my eyes averted.
“Why would I laugh?” He crunches his mint. “It’s not like it’s gonna be something horrendous, like Gertrude or –” He claps a hand over his mouth. “Shit, it’s not, is it?”
“No!” I laugh.
He chuckles and puts his feet down into his shoes, then he leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, blue eyes fixed on me. “You’re gonna have to tell me now, ‘cause I’m really intrigued.”
I stare down at my long hair that I’ve started to plait. Why do I suddenly feel so shy around him?
He points the remote at the TV, switches it off, gets up from his seat and sits down on the bed beside me. I glance up at him and meet his eyes. My heart does this weird fluttery thing and my mouth suddenly dries.
This is getting really weird. What is going on with me?
“Would it help if I told you my name?” he says, pushing his hand through his dark hair.
“I know your name –”
“No,” he butts in. “Fen’s not my actual name.”
I stop plaiting. Now I’m intrigued. “Okay,” I say, raising an eyebrow.
He rubs his hand over his mouth. “Promise not to laugh?”
“I promise.” I begin untangling my hair.
He eyes me suspiciously. I maintain steady contact, widening my eyes. “I promise,” I emphasise, jokily holding my hands up.
He’s quiet for a moment. “Osvaldo,” he finally says, face deadpan.
I laugh.
“Sorry,” I say, trying to keep a straight face – unsuccessfully, might I add. “Wow, erm, Osvaldo, its erm . . .”
“Portuguese,” he says dryly. “My mum’s Portuguese. It was my grandfather’s name.”
Okay, so now I feel mean for laughing. “Where does Fen come from?” I ask, feeling tense, worried I’ve offended him. I tuck my hair behind my ears.
“My surname's Fenn, and it’s what all my mates have called me since school – and anything’s gotta be better than Osvaldo,” he adds grinning, eyes twinkling at me, and I instantly relax.
“I didn’t realise you were from Portugal,” I say, but now I look at him I can see it.
“I’m not. I was born here, my dad’s Australian but my mum’s originally from Portugal.”
“Ah, right. So can you speak Portuguese?”
“Fluent.” He nods.
I lean forward, excitedly. “Ooh, say something to me in Portuguese.”
“No,” he says coyly.
“Go on,” I urge.
He sighs, defeated. “Alright, but on one condition – you have to tell me the name you’ve picked for yourself?”
I purse my lips. “Okay. Deal. But you go first.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. He fixes his insanely blue eyes on mine and says in a lightly accented voice, “Estou tão feliz que você veio em minha vida linda menina.”
A shiver runs through me and my heart does this little flip-flop. “What does that mean?” I ask, my voice suddenly sounding hoarse.
“Nothing of importance,” he brushes me off. “So, go on then, it’s your turn and I promise not to laugh – unlike some people – scout's honour.” He does a two finger salute.
And something flashes through my mind, like, I don’t know – recognition – a memory – maybe. I close my eyes and try to grab hold of it – but no, it’s gone. Dammit!
“You okay?” I hear the sound of Fen concerned voice.
I open my eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine.” I rub my head. “I don’t know, just when you did that – that salute, it seemed really familiar.”
“What, like a memory?” he asks, looking hopeful.