Angel Falls

Chapter Twenty-one


Not long after lunch, Mikaela fell asleep.
She knew she was dreaming now. It was the first dream she’d had since waking up, and there was a comforting familiarity in the sensation. In her dream, the world was a hazy smear of blues and greens. A gentle summer breeze fluttered through the towering evergreen trees.
She was walking along a deserted road. Her body was working perfectly, no right leg dragging along behind her, no fingers that wouldn’t close. She came around a bend in the gravel road and saw an imposing wooden barn set on the crest of a hill. In the fields around it, there were horses standing in a group, munching contentedly on sweet green grass that came up to their hocks.
She kept moving, floating almost, past the barn, toward a beautiful log house.
A bank of gray clouds moved in suddenly, obliterating the lemon sunshine, casting the log house in shadow. It began to rain, spits of cold water that landed on her upturned cheeks like God’s own teardrops.
The front door opened for her.
She stumbled on the porch steps. Crying out, she grasped the railing and a splinter drove deep into the tender flesh of her palm. When she lifted her hand, she saw the bright, ruby-red trail of blood snaking down her wrist.
“No,” she tried to say, but the wind snatched her words away, and she was still walking, across the porch, into the house.
The door slammed shut behind her. She felt her way down the smooth wooden wall toward a staircase she somehow knew was there.
At the bottom, she paused, listening. Somewhere in this cold, dark house, a child was crying.
I’m coming. The words played across Mikaela’s mind but didn’t quite reach her mouth. She was moving again, running this time.
The cries became louder, more insistent. Mikaela had a fleeting, heartbreaking image of a little boy, red-haired, sucking his thumb. He was tucked back in a corner, waiting for his mommy to come for him.
But there were a hundred doors in front of her, and the hallway stretched for miles, fading out of focus at its end. She ran down the corridor, yanking open doors. Behind those doors lay nothing, yawning black rectangles spangled with starlight, breathing a cold winter wind.
All at once, the crying stopped. The silence terrified her. She was too late … too late …
She woke with a start. The ceiling above her was made of white acoustical tiles, their pattern sharp and bright after the hazy quality of her dream.
The hospital.
There was a man standing by her window. Her first thought was Julian—but then she noticed that he was wearing a white coat.
He turned toward her, and she saw that it wasn’t Dr. Penn. It was the other one—what was his name? He was a tall man, with longish blond hair and a nice face. He reminded her of an aged version of that actor from Thunderbolt and Lightfoot. Jeff Bridges, that was his name. It disgusted her that she could remember an actor’s name, and practically none of her own life.
“You need a haircut.” The words just popped out of her mouth, and she winced. What on earth had made her say that to this man?
He ran a hand through his shaggy hair and smiled, but it was a sad smile, and she wondered why he looked so … forlorn. “Yeah, I suppose I do. My … wife cuts my hair.”
When he spoke, it sent a shiver through her. “You’re the voice,” she said softly.
He pulled up a chair and sat down beside her bed. He stared at her boldly, without apology, and there was something in his eyes—a yearning, maybe—that made her want to touch him. But that was crazy; she didn’t even know him.
“What voice?” he said at last.
“When I was asleep, I heard you.”
He smiled again. “I didn’t know if you’d be able to. It seemed like I talked forever.”
Forever. That word again. It teased her, tickled some forgotten chord. “Who are you?” she asked.
He studied her for a minute. “Dr. Liam Campbell.”
Somehow she knew that wasn’t right. She looked around the room, at the photographs along the window that she hadn’t bothered to look at, and the bottles of fragrant spices, at the lovely pond filled with slick black rocks. She knew without knowing that this was the man who’d played the endless stream of her favorite songs. He was the one who’d given her something to hang on to through all that darkness.
And it was this man—this stranger with the sad, familiar eyes—who’d been here at her bedside for all those days, talking, touching, waiting. She could remember the feel of his hand stroking her hair while she slept, and the sound of his laugh. Somehow she knew that, too. She knew that he had a booming, throaty laugh that filled a room and begged you to join in.
“I remember how you laugh,” she said, amazed.
That seemed to please him. He smiled. “The memories will come like that, in bits and pieces.”
“Who are you?”
“Dr. Li—”
“No. Who are you to me?”
His whole body seemed to deflate, to sink into that ugly chair. Slowly he stood up and reached for her left hand. He caressed her fingers, so tenderly that her breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t remember ever being touched in just such a way, and then something came to her, some half-formed memory that couldn’t quite be reached. “This ring,” he said quietly. “I put it on your finger ten years ago.”
She stared down at the ring. A wedding ring. “You’re …” She couldn’t seem to form the word.
“I’m your husband.”
It was incomprehensible. “But … Julian …”
“Julian was your first husband.”
She panicked. First a child, now a husband. How much had she forgotten? How much more was out there?
She stared at him, shaking her head in denial. She wanted to say It can’t be, but in the last few days, she knew that anything could be. “How could I forget such a thing? How could I have … no feeling for you at all?”
He flinched, and in that tiny expression of pain, she knew it was true. “Don’t worry about it, babe,” he said. “It’s okay not to remember.”
“I—I don’t know what to say to you … Liam.” She tried out the name on her tongue, but nothing came with it. It was just a collection of vowels and consonants that had no meaning.
He touched her face. “It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t okay. It was a long, long way from okay. This man was her husband, her husband, and she had no feelings for him whatsoever. He was her family now, what she’d done for the past ten years. At some point she must have stopped loving Julian and started loving this gentle, quiet man. But what would happen now that she only remembered the love for Julian?
She tried to smile at him, but it was a trembling failure. “Tell me about our life together.” These were the words that slipped from her lips, but what she meant was Make me love you again …
He smiled, and she knew he was recalling a memory that was now his alone. “You were a nurse then. I first met you when you cared for my father …” He looked at her. “Do you mind if I hold your hand?”
It surprised her, that request. There was something so … gentle and old-fashioned about it. She couldn’t help thinking how different he was from Julian. Jules would never ask; it would never occur to him that his touch might not be welcomed. “Okay, sure,” she said.
Their gazes met and held. She felt awkward suddenly, confused by this man who was both a stranger and her husband.
Husband.
“Kinda weird, huh?” he said with a crooked, nervous grin.
She smiled in return and leaned toward him, studying his face, searching for something, some vagrant memory. But there was nothing. Still, he had the kindest eyes she’d ever seen. “This must be hard on you,” she said softly.
“The coma was harder.”
Somehow she didn’t think so. “Are you the one … did you call Julian?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand. If you and I are married now, why would you do that?”
“I couldn’t … wake you up. I sat here every day, holding your hand, talking to you, playing your favorite music. I did everything I could think of to reach you, but … day after day, you just lay there.” His voice fell to a throaty whisper. “I knew I was losing you.”
“Why Julian?”
He let out a long, sighing breath. “Because, Mikaela, I knew.”
She felt her heart skip a beat. “Knew what?”
“That you never completely stopped … loving him.”
For a heartbeat, she forgot to breathe. “You loved me very much.” She couldn’t keep the wonder from her voice. She could never remember feeling this way before, this awesome mixture of joy and sadness, this feeling of being … loved deeply and completely. Julian’s love wasn’t like that. It was a blast of red-hot fireworks that exploded in Technicolor around you, but when it died, it left a cold, black sky behind.
“I still do,” he said, smiling down at her with a sadness that wrenched her heart.
“I must have loved you, too.”
He paused a moment too long before answering. “Yes.”
And she knew. “I stayed in love with Julian, didn’t I?” Somehow it hurt, that realization. “I hurt you,” she said softly, sadly. “Did I know it?”
“I hope not.”
She gazed up at him. “I’m sorry.”
There was more to say, and no way she could think of to say it all. How could you apologize for what you couldn’t remember?
Or worse, for what you were afraid you were going to do all over again?
It began simply enough, with the whooshing sound of the electronic doors opening. Julian sat in the lobby, staring at the wall clock. The slim black hands seemed to be stuck at 2:45. Liam was in with Kayla now, and he’d asked Julian to wait for him.
“Hey, Juli.”
Julian looked up and saw Val sauntering toward him. Instead of his usual faded jeans and movie T-shirt, his agent was wearing a black Hilfiger suit with a dyed-to-match silk shirt and tie. His blond hair had been recently styled and cut; only a fringe of curls lay against his shoulders. He hadn’t bothered to remove the Ray-Bans that shielded his eyes.
Julian would have smiled if he hadn’t felt so damned bad. “This is Last Bend, you idiot, not Cannes. The only designer they know around here is L.L. Bean.” He got to his feet and turned.
That’s when he saw them. Outside, beyond the wall of windows that flanked the front doors, the vans and rental cars were already lining up. People in rumpled black clothes streamed out of those cars like locusts, gathering in a semicircle.
He’d seen it enough times to know the sequence by heart. The media circus coming to town. “Jesus, Val, what did you do?”
Val lifted his hands, Christ-like. “You’re white-hot, Juli. A few words whispered in a few ears and the story spread like wildfire. I have to admit, I didn’t expect this kind of turnout.”
“Goddamn it, Val, I told you not to—” He stopped. It was too late. They’d seen him.
Reporters swarmed through the doorway, microphones at the ready, cameras stationed on their shoulders. Within seconds, Julian and Val were engulfed. Val winked at him. “Too late to hide now, Juli.”
Julian had to get them out of here. He pushed through the crowd and headed outside, into the freezing cold. The locusts followed, firing questions.
“Julian? Is it true? Have you found your Cinderella?”
“How badly is she hurt?”
“Is she still beautiful?”
“How come there’s no Kayla True registered in this hospital? Is this a hoax?”
Julian held up his hands, forcing his trademark smile. Flashbulbs popped like gum in a whore’s mouth, cords slithered across his feet. “There’s no story here, boys and girls. I’m here for the Make-a-Wish Foundation. That’s all.”
Val thumped him on the back. Hard. “He’s too shy to tell you the truth. You all know that Juli’s first wife, Kayla, was the love of his life. Unfortunately, they were too young …” He paused and glanced around.
Val had them—hook, line, and sinker. Julian could see it in the reporters’ feverish eyes, hear it in the sudden, indrawn silence.
Julian’s best intentions cracked under the strain. God help him, he couldn’t let Val hog the spotlight. “You can imagine how I felt when I heard that she’d had an accident. I rushed up here to be at her bedside—”
“Why did they call you?” someone shouted out.
“I was told that Kayla had suffered a serious head injury—”
“Is she brain damaged?”
“Maybe that’s why she asked for Julian!”
Val touched Julian’s shoulder lightly, taking the reins of the story again. “She was in a coma for a month. For a while it looked hopeless …” He hesitated, shaking his head sadly. “Then the doctors discovered that Kayla responded to only one thing—the sound of Julian’s name.”
A gasp rippled through the crowd; they recognized the taste and feel of it, the story that had just been handed to them. Several reporters glanced at their watches, trying to figure out how to get to their editors before the rest of the crowd.
“Naturally, Julian raced up here,” Val said. “He sat with her, day after day, talking to her, holding her hand, reminding her that there was a man who loved her and was waiting for her to waken.” He gave them a brilliant, here-comes-the-good-part smile. “Yesterday she woke up. Julian was beside her. The first person she saw.”
One of the female reporters sighed. “What were her first words?”
Julian started to answer; no one was listening. “She—”
“Is she brain damaged?”
“Is she still in love with you, Julian?”
Julian sighed. They didn’t care about the miracle of Kayla’s awakening. All they wanted was “the story,” the gilt-edged fairy tale—or, better yet, a scandal. A death. Anything sensational.
He looked around, at the faces. A few he recognized. They came and went, these low-rent reporters from the tabloids. It wasn’t a job that any normal human being could stomach for long.
They were a reflection of his life. Funny, but he’d never realized that before. He’d always dismissed the media as a necessary evil; you couldn’t get famous without them. But now he saw the empty black space that ringed the spotlight. Nothing captured in a glass lens was real.
But Julian had no life except that which was filmed, and that made him the blankest spot of all. He’d traded everything real for the split-second brightness of a camera’s flash.
“That’s enough for today,” he said, wishing he’d never talked to them.
Val grinned. “You’ve got your headline, kids. The kiss of True love wakes up Sleeping Beauty.”
As Liam walked out of Stephen’s office, he heard his name paged over the hospital’s system. He grabbed the nearest phone and punched in his code. The message was from Rosa. She was waiting for him in the lobby. It was an emergency.
He saw Rosa before she saw him. She was standing in the center of the room—unusual for a woman who always sat in a corner with her head down—with her arms crossed. Even from this distance, he could see the way her mouth was drawn into an angry line.
Something was wrong.
Up close, he could see the worry lines etched around her eyes and mouth. “Rosa?”
“You see what he has done?”
“What are you talking about?”
She took a deep breath. “I am muy upset. I am listening to the radio at home while I make the tortillas for tonight’s supper, sí? And I hear the local news.” She cocked her head toward the hospital’s front doors, where a crowd was gathered around Julian. “It is the big story, Dr. Liam. They are saying that Julian brought his true love out of a coma.”
“Damn it.” Liam ran down the hall and into the lobby. He saw the crowd gathered outside, and headed for the doors.
Reporters circled Julian, angled toward him like supplicants, microphones instead of prayer books in their outstretched hands. They all talked at once, their questions climbing over each other in a frenzied outburst.
“When will we get to interview Kayla?”
“When will we get a shot of the two of you?”
“What has she been doing all of these years?”
“Are you two going to get married again?”
Liam grabbed Julian by the arm and spun him around. Trying not to look at the reporters, he said in a quiet voice, “I need to speak to you. Now.”
Julian had the grace to look embarrassed. “Sure thing, Doc.” He threw the crowd a false smile. “This here is Liam Campbell. He’s Kayla’s … doctor.”
The crowd had a dozen simultaneous questions. Liam ignored them. Hanging on to Julian’s arm, he dragged him into the lobby, past Rosa, and into an empty examining room.
An instant later, the door opened and Rosa walked in.
“Hi, Rosa,” Julian said, then turned to Liam. “I’m so sorry, Liam. I told my agent to keep the press away, but he ignored me. Really, I’m sorry. And believe me, they’re like termites—once they infest your house, you have to deal with them. If I didn’t talk to them, God knows what story they’d come up with. At least this way it’s the truth.”
Liam looked at him. “Your truth, maybe.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve spoon-fed them a romance, haven’t you, with you as the hero of the piece, the white knight who arrived in a black limousine and pulled her back from the brink of death.”
“You have not heard the worst of it, Dr. Liam,” Rosa said, shuffling toward the two men. “When I was walking into the hospital, I heard the questions. The reporters were asking about his daughter.”
“Jesus Christ.” Liam grabbed Julian by the shoulders and shook him. “Tell me you protected her. Tell me you didn’t say a goddamn word about your daughter.”
Julian winced. “I protected her—honestly, but
Val … he told them that she was a cheerleader at the high school.”
For the first time in his life, Liam punched a man. He drew back his fist and slammed it into Julian’s pretty-boy jaw. Pain radiated all the way up his arm. “There are only eight cheerleaders at the high school.”
He turned to his mother-in-law. “You stay here with Mike. Keep the press away from her. I’ll get the kids and be back as soon as I can. We’ll come in through the back way.”