Beyond Innocence Read online

  To his credit, Zennie took a moment to consider that question. “No, I suppose I can’t. But that’s why I’m here. It’s fascinating and I want to try and capture your experience for the readers. Amnesia is an intriguing subject and I’m sure they’ll lap it up.”

  “Your nobility of purpose humbles me,” said Marnie dryly. “You don’t care about Luke and all that he’s lost. All you care about is selling a story.”

  Zennie grinned. “You catch on fast.” He turned back to Luke. “So, how does all that make you feel? How does it feel to know that you have all this in your past—that you have friends and family who might be worried about you and that there may be someone out there who wants you dead?”

  Luke picked up the glass and studied the rivulets of moisture that were slipping down the sides and collecting on his skin. “It’s very lonely.” He felt Marnie’s fingers slip around his free hand, and he gripped them tightly. “And, to be honest, it’s a little scary. Without a past the future is very uncertain.”

  Zennie tapped his notepad with his pen. “And just how hard have you tried to discover that past? What have you done to find out your true identity? What about a private investigator? Or fingerprints?”

  Marnie squeezed his hand, and he allowed her to answer that question. “From what we could tell, the police investigation was very thorough. They did take fingerprints when Luke was still comatose, as a matter of fact, but they came up empty. They—”

  “Did they only check Canadian records, or did they involve Interpol?”

  “I really don’t know,” said Marnie tightly. “You’d have to ask them that. But I believe they did the best they could. As to a private investigator…” She glanced at Luke and he shrugged. “That may be a possibility for the future, but for now Luke is concentrating on his recovery and making a life for himself.”

  After jotting down a few notes, Zennie continued with some innocuous questions about the practical aspects of Luke’s situation. How were his medical bills being covered since his residency was in question? Did he have any income? Plans for the future?

  Luke answered them all as best he could, and as Zennie’s questions began to wind down Luke rubbed at his temples. A dull ache had developed behind his eyes and was beginning to spread. The neurologist had warned him to expect headaches, but so far Luke had been lucky. There had been one or two, but they hadn’t been too severe and the medication he had been given had quickly eliminated the symptoms. The neck rubs that Marnie insisted on giving him didn’t hurt either.

  “Are we about done?” he asked, honestly regretting the edge to his voice.

  Marnie’s hand had remained linked to his for the remainder of the interview. “I think he’s given you more than enough material,” she added. “And I think—”

  “Just one last thing,” said Zennie as he pulled a manila envelope out of the briefcase at his feet. “I’d like to get his impressions of these.” He pulled out a small stack of eight-by-ten photographs. “The doctor I spoke to thought they might help to jog his memory.”

  “What?” Marnie sounded concerned and irritated. “What kind of pictures are we talking about here?”

  But Luke just wanted to finish and get Zennie out of the house. He reached out and snatched the pictures from Zennie’s grasp. “All right, but this is it. I want—” The breath caught in his throat and he couldn’t speak. He could barely breathe.

  “Oh my God!” exclaimed Marnie as she reached to pull them out of his hands.

  “No!” croaked Luke. “I want to see.” He flipped through the pictures, ignoring the faint surge of nausea and the throbbing that was gathering intensity and spreading toward the back of his head.

  He barely heard Marnie’s indignant accusations. “Where did you get those? Who in God’s name would take pictures like that? I met the people who found him. I can’t imagine…”

  Luke flipped to another shot—another angle, another perspective on the bloody, pulpy mass that had been his body. Twisted limbs and unrecognizable features were set against a backdrop of rocks and bushes and congealing blood.

  “The police got there just before the ambulance,” explained Zennie. “They didn’t really think he’d make it, so they snapped a few quick photos. You know, like they do when they find a body.”

  Marnie groaned as Luke finally set down the stack and pushed it across the table to Zennie, who continued his narrative, “I’ve got a friend down at the station. He managed to get copies for me. The paper wouldn’t print them, but I thought they might mean something to you.” He turned to Luke and asked, “So? Did that spark any memories?” His voice was as nonchalant as if he were inquiring about the weather.

  Luke closed his eyes and swallowed the bile that had risen in his throat. Without a word he stood and walked unsteadily from the room, heading for the stairs and the sanctuary of the second floor.

  He was vaguely aware of Marnie’s angry words and barely veiled threats. He thought he heard the door open and something being thrown out onto the sidewalk. He definitely heard the door slam, but by that time he was curled up on his bed, his eyes closed against the light that was assaulting his senses and sending daggers of pain shooting through his brain.

  He concentrated on breathing and not throwing up. And then he felt Marnie’s soft touch on his arms, his back, his face.

  “Luke?” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. Did it bring back horrible memories? Do you need anything?”

  “Just the headache pills.” He let out a long slow breath before adding, “Please.”

  Within moments Marnie was back, helping him to sit up, handing him a glass of cold water and two little pills. Sitting up sent a fresh wave of pain crashing through his skull, but he braved it and popped the pills into his mouth. He accepted the glass and downed the medication in a single gulp.

  As he moved to lie down again Marnie asked, “Would you like a neck rub? Would that help?” He could hear her anxiety. She wanted to help. And maybe she could.

  “Just stay with me.” He whispered, but the words reverberated inside his skull like a klaxon.

  “All right.” He felt her climb onto the bed beside him and settle herself against the headboard. She tugged gently on his shoulders, directing him to lie with his head in her lap. Grateful for the warmth and the contact, he obliged and the soft strokes of her fingers over his hair began to ease the anxiety and smooth out the tension.

  He broke the silence, not because she had asked him to but because he needed to. “Was that really me?”

  “Yes.” Her hand lingered at the nape of his neck and then stroked his hair again. “I didn’t see you until you were all bandaged up in intensive care. Those pictures were just as much a shock to me as they were to you.”

  “Why?”

  Her hand hovered. “Why what?”

  “Why would someone do that? Who could hate me that much? What kind of person was I?”

  “Oh, Luke—just because someone wanted to hurt you doesn’t mean you hurt them, or that you were a bad person. Sometimes people hurt people just because it makes them feel powerful, or because they enjoy seeing others in pain.”

  He nodded weakly, desperate to believe her. “It felt like I was looking at a stranger. I try to imagine myself as that man and I can’t. It makes me sick to think about it.”

  “Then don’t. There’s no reason for you to remember that part of it. When you do remember I hope you remember the good things. Try to focus on the good.” He felt her lips brush his forehead and felt a little bit of the tension seep out of rigid muscles.

  He nodded and willed more muscles to relax.

  “Do you want to sleep?”

  Again, a slight nod.

  “Then go ahead. I’ll stay.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  Her fingers touched his lips. “Shh. I want to. I want to stay.”

  He took her at her word and allowed the drugs and her touch to coax him into the seductive realm of darkness where disjointed dreams were the only
connection he had with an ambiguous past.

  Chapter Eleven

  Marnie peered around the corner of the kitchen doorway into the living room. Luke was curled up in his usual position on the couch, his legs tucked up, one hand resting on his thigh. The television was on and he was staring at it, but his eyes were unfocused and the only evidence that he wasn’t completely catatonic was the occasional movement of his hand as he massaged his sore quadriceps.

  She gritted her teeth and pulled back into the kitchen, where she was preparing potato salad to go with the barbecued burgers she was planning for supper.

  She swore if she ever saw that Zennie again she would take the opportunity to acquaint him with the meaning of words like “integrity” and “sensitivity”—words that were obviously foreign concepts to him and his ilk. Perhaps she would even take the opportunity to acquaint his fly with the toe of her cowboy boot.

  She had been seething—on the edge of full-fledged rage—for the last twenty-four hours. It had built steadily as she stroked Luke’s forehead and watched his breathing settle into the deep, regular pattern that indicated he had fallen asleep. She had stayed with him for hours, watching him fluctuate between periods of deep, dreamless sleep and sessions of rapid eye movement that were accompanied by incoherent speech and restless limbs.

  At last she had torn herself away and had been amazed when he hadn’t wakened again until almost nine o’clock the next morning. When he trudged downstairs he had been a far cry from his usual eager, chipper self. It was unsettling to watch him silently shovel cereal into his mouth and pour coffee down his throat, without a word or a smile or a glimmer of energy.

  She had come to expect his bright smile and eager conversation at the breakfast table. She was getting used to the sound of someone else using her shower and leaving towels on the floor. She was getting used to the little routines that had developed with him in the house. She was getting used to not being alone.

  They had begun regular morning sessions of instruction in reading and mathematics. He was making enormous strides in a very short time, and she predicted he would be reading on a high-school level again within a month. No doubt the pathways already existed in his brain—they just needed to be reopened and the embers of knowledge rekindled.

  But this morning he had hardly spoken and had shown no interest in the books she had left sitting out on the table. He had made the excuse that he couldn’t concentrate and then had guzzled the last of his coffee before settling down to watch a series of mindless talk shows and soap operas.

  She had decided to let him be, hopeful that with a little time he would manage to work it out for himself. No doubt seeing those photos had been traumatic. She could barely imagine what he was going through. But she was becoming impatient with him. He couldn’t allow himself to wallow in self-pity and despair. He had to get on with his life.

  She was still angry with Zennie, but gradually she had focused a little bit of irritation on Luke.

  On impulse she threw the last potato into the bowl with the other hearty chunks that were waiting for her special dressing. She wiped off her hands and stomped into the living room. She flicked off the television and planted herself directly in his line of vision.

  He blinked and slowly raised his eyes to meet hers. He said nothing.

  “That’s enough!” She threw the words at him like a fast ball.

  “Enough what?”

  “Enough self-indulgent, juvenile moping.”

  His eyebrows arched. “Are you sure?”

  His answer momentarily threw her off balance, but she recovered quickly. “Quite.”

  “I don’t think so.” He raked his fingers through his hair and his eyes moved back to the blank television screen. “Would you mind turning that back on? I was really into it.”

  Marnie snorted. “Really? What were you watching?”

  “It was…”

  “Yes?”

  “Somebody was crying…about something.”

  Marnie rolled her eyes and folded her arms across her chest. “You’ve been using the television as an excuse to wallow in those images that Zennie showed you. I thought you were bigger than that, Luke. I didn’t think you were the type to indulge in self-pity.”

  His eyes flared red-hot. “Oh, really? And how would you know that? You know nothing about me. I know nothing about me. Maybe I’m a selfish, spineless, lazy barnacle on the butt of society. Maybe this is all I’m good at. Maybe I never could read. Maybe I never could drive. Maybe I spent my life on the dole, watching soaps and game shows, and…”

  “And what?”

  “Nothing. Leave me alone.”

  “No.” Feeling a heaviness in her chest and a burning in the back of her throat she crossed the room and sat down beside him. She picked up his hand but he ripped it out of her grasp. He wouldn’t look at her. “Luke, I know how hard this is for you.”

  “You don’t have a clue.” He closed his eyes and laid his head back on the couch. Her eyes roved over the rough edges and dark brows, the jagged scars and hard slash of a mouth. As she watched, the lines softened and the tension eased. He opened his eyes and glared at the ceiling. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I’m just…” He grimaced and let out a low guttural moan. “It’s just so…”

  “Frustrating? Terrifying? Infuriating?”

  “Yeah. Something like that.” He rubbed his eyes with stiff fingers. “I can’t get those pictures out of my head.” He focused on her, and her resolve to be tough melted like butter in the sun. “The thing is, that’s all I have of my life before I woke up. That’s it! Sometimes the obstacles seem so enormous I can’t face them. Sometimes I wonder if it’s all worth it. Sometimes I wish I had never woken up from that coma. It was easier there. Safer. No one expected anything, least of all me.”

  Again she reached for his hand and was grateful when, this time, he didn’t pull away. “Please don’t say that. If you had never awakened you wouldn’t be here.” She took another risk and touched his chin with a hesitant fingertip. She drew his face around, close to hers. “And I’m so glad you’re here. You’re the best friend I’ve had in a long time, Luke, and I don’t want to lose you to hopelessness. I don’t mean to put pressure on you. You have to do things in your own time. But maybe if we tackle the obstacles, one at a time, together—maybe then they won’t seem so overwhelming.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She sighed and smiled. “What are you sorry about?”

  “That I’m not better at…this. Friendship. Whatever.”

  “I think you’re doing just fine…at this.”

  “What is this, Marnie?” He stroked the back of her hand and she tried to ignore the parade of goose bumps that made a trek up her arm. “Are we just friends? Is that all? Not that that’s not enough. It’s just that sometimes I think I’m feeling more and I’m confused about so much. I’d like to understand this. I want to get it right.”

  Marnie felt a slow, burning heat surging out from her chest as his gaze penetrated hers and he asked the questions that had been searing her brain for the last month. As long as it wasn’t spoken out loud she could ignore it, pretend there weren’t any questions at all. But now, with him gazing at her with those dusky blue eyes and his hand wrapped around hers—all bone and muscle and tendon and tenderness—now she couldn’t ignore the prickling on her skin or the flutter of her heart against her rib cage.

  She tried to speak. She tried to verbalize something coherent—something that would satisfy him and put off the inevitable, at least until she felt that she could handle it.

  But her hesitation was her undoing. Maybe he misread her silence. Maybe she wanted him to. All she knew was that when his lips joined with hers there was no way on God’s green earth that she was going to stop him.

  The kiss was brief—barely a sigh of flesh against flesh—but it left her as breathless and her skin as moist as if she had been standing in a hurricane.

  He drew away and his eyes were ques
tioning. “Well?”

  “Well—”

  She was spared from further articulation of feelings that defied description when the doorbell rang and startled them both, making them jump as if they had been caught in the act of fornicating in the backseat of a Chevy.

  Marnie swallowed and licked her lips. “My niece.”

  “Right. What was her name again?”

  “Name?”

  “Yeah. She has one, right?”

  The doorbell rang again, and Marnie tried to sort through the flurry of activity in her brain. “I guess I better get it.”

  “Uh-huh. Should I come?”

  “No—I mean—yeah—I mean…”

  He stood and pulled her to her feet, leading her toward the front door through the haze that had settled over her senses. She put her hand on the knob but was startled to feel his lips against her ear. “Whatever this is,” his lips brushed her lobe, “I think I like it.”

  There was far too much to put into words, so she decided not to. She merely nodded and pulled the door open.

  Scowling and annoyed, Don stood there with his daughter attached to his leg like a chipmunk on a tree trunk. “What took you so long?”

  “I’m sorry. I got—uh—distracted.”

  Don frowned, and she hoped he couldn’t read the flush in her face or see the glaze of sweat on her cheeks.

  “Whatever,” he grunted.

  “Where’s Karen? I’d have thought she’d come along to give me some instructions about Tiffany.”

  In response Don held out a small sheet of paper. “She wrote down a few things. She didn’t come because…” Obviously uncomfortable, he glanced down at his daughter whose eyes were trained on Luke. “Because she wasn’t completely comfortable with the arrangement this weekend.”