Forget Me Not (7 page)

"What is the name of the mythological bird that rises from its ashes into new life?" asked the host of Mallory's show.

"The phoenix," said Mallory and Gabe at the same time. They shared a quick smile.

"An illness which, in Latin, means 'inflammation of the lungs.'"

"Pneumonia," Mallory piped up, but the boy on the red team got the answer wrong. "Oh, my God. How dumb is he?"

Helen couldn't stand it any longer, watching Gabe and Mallory all cozied up before the TV.
It's not going to stay like that,
she wanted to warn her daughter.
Don't get your hopes up that he's going to be a father to you.
"Mallory, would you set the table for me?" she asked, hearing tension in her own voice.

To her surprise, both Gabe and Mallory popped up from their seats.

"I've got it," Mallory said to him.

Gabe wandered into the kitchen, causing Helen's blood pressure to soar. She already felt like a hormonal wreck. The last thing she needed was him hovering over her. "Is there anything I can do?" he asked, glancing with concern at the sizzling pork chops.

They were burning, Helen realized. "No, thanks," she said, hurrying to the stove to flip them over. As she lifted the lid off the pan, a fleck of grease flew out, catching the underside of her arm. Helen nearly dropped the glass lid. It clattered into place as she hurried to the sink to run her arm under cold water.

She found Gabe right next to her. "You okay?" he asked with evident concern.

Had he always been this tall, this attentive? She stepped quickly away, snatching up a paper towel. "I'm fine," she said, pressing the cool towel to the burn.

He trailed her over to the stove. "You might want to turn down the heat," he offered, doing it himself.

She whirled on him. "Don't tell me how to cook," she warned him, crushing the paper towel into a ball.

He stood there, clearly taken aback by her vehemence. "I'm not telling you how to cook," he said. "I just don't want you to burn yourself again."

"I know what I'm doing," she insisted. "I don't need you to micromanage me."

With a nonplussed look, Gabe glanced at Mallory who had frozen by the buffet, looking pained.

"I thought I ignored you," Gabe said quietly.

He had. He'd spent hours and weeks and months away from her, giving everything to his team. Self-pity strangled Helen abruptly. She turned around so he wouldn't see her stricken expression and stirred the rice without purpose.

The silence in the kitchen was suddenly bottomless, as was the despair in Helen's heart. Why did they have to go through this? she wondered. Gabe's presence only confused her senses and caused her daughter to wish for things that would never happen. Having Gabe home was pointless. He'd proven in die past that he wasn't meant to be a husband or a father. It was just a matter of time before he proved it again. It wasn't fair to either of them that they should have to relive their heartbreak.

Sensitive to Helen's upset and realizing that he was the cause for it, Gabe turned toward the living room and thumped into an armchair. It'd be easier on Helen if he just stayed out of the way. Clearly having him around was as unsettling to her as not having his memories was to him.

Mallory's show had gone to commercial. Gabe reached for the remote and flipped idly through the channels, pausing when he came to CNN. It disturbed him to think of how much he'd missed this last year—Jesus, the last three years!

"Relations with North Korea continue to deteriorate," relayed the newscaster. "South Korea's president continues endeavors to keep the peace between the two countries, but North Korean leader, Kim Chong-il, has yet to cut back the nuclear program. President Towers has stated that in order for the United States to give financial aid, North Korea must respond to the U.N.'s demands. At the present time, it is estimated that one in three North Koreans will starve this year if humanitarian aid is not resumed."

Gabe was aware that the news had moved on to other hot spots, yet he sat unmoving on the couch as a vision of Kim Chong-il, North Korea's leader, burned the back of his eyes. He'd stared at a picture of that face so frequently that he knew every line and wrinkle on it. Goose bumps ridged Gabe's forearms and spread.
One in three North Koreans will starve this year.
The words of the newscaster replayed in his head. A chill moved up Gabe's spine and gripped his scalp.

There was something significant about the hunger raging in North Korea. Something he knew. Something he had to remember.

He felt the tension gather in his muscles, making him rigid. He heard himself breathing hard, felt his hands curl into fists. He searched his empty mind and found nothing but vague shapes shrouded in gray; illusory images that flashed so briefly he couldn't recollect what they were. It was important Christ, he had to remember.

"Dad!" Mallory's voice penetrated the fog in which he was trapped. "Are you okay?"

He felt her hand on his shoulder and he shook himself free, rousing to the present.

Helen rushed over and stood behind her daughter.

Gabe dragged in a steadying breath. His skin felt clammy. "Yeah, I'm okay." He came shakily to his feet. For a second he thought he was going to puke. He held perfectly still. The scent of burnt pork chops assailed his nostrils.

Helen's face swam before his eyes. "I'm calling the doctor," she informed him, heading for the phone.

"No," he said, waving her back. "It was a flashback. They said it would happen. I'm fine."

She searched his face. "Did you remember something?"

He found her concern encouraging. Or did she merely want this transitory stage over with, so she could move on with her life? "Not really." His thoughts went back to what he'd heard on the news, and he rubbed his forehead with exasperation. "But there's something I have to remember."

"You will," she assured him, touching him briefly. "Don't try so hard. It'll come in its own time."

He thought about the crab he'd tried to drag from its burrow that afternoon. He wasn't sure he had time to coax his memories to the surface.

But her palm felt warm and soft against his arm. "Dinner smells good," he lied. "Let's eat."

Her look of startled pleasure stayed with him for the remainder of the night.

"Mrs. Renault, would you join us?"

Helen frowned over the article she was reading on how to make a rock garden. Dr. Noel Terrien was standing at his door, a door that had been closed for some time now. Helen had been prepared to wait the full hour. She was completely caught off guard by the invitation to join in Gabe's therapy.

"It would be helpful to your husband if you would sit with us from time to time," added the doctor encouragingly.

Oh, bother.
She was still distressed that she'd had to leave work early. The paperwork had piled up from her day off, and she hadn't even put a dent in it. The routine that she'd enjoyed when Gabe was gone was shattered. Once more, the world revolved around him.

She immediately chided herself for being so insensitive. Gabe was dealing with far more serious issues than inconvenience. She ought to be more supportive. The sooner he recovered, the sooner she could move on with her life.

On the other hand, she wasn't that eager to bring back the old Gabe. The man she'd brought home from the hospital might look like him, but he hadn't acted anything like him. He'd been patient, thoughtful, and attentive—attributes he hadn't exhibited in years.

The old Gabe had also refused to take part in Mallory's counseling. She didn't want to be guilty of the same crime, so she dropped the magazine on the chair and snatched up her purse.

Gabe was waiting in the doctor's office. He'd chosen the least comfortable chair and was sitting ramrod-straight in it with his arms crossed.

No wonder Dr. Terrien had asked for her help.

At her entrance, Gabe sent her an imploring gaze. He looked so utterly miserable that compassion welled up in her. She surprised herself by taking the chair nearest his and giving him an encouraging smile.

Dr. Terrien sat in a wingback chair opposite them. Leaning forward, he propped his elbows on his knees. He was a big-boned man with a head of salt and pepper curls, thick eyebrows, and eyes the color of the ocean on overcast days.

"Mrs. Renault," he said, "your husband has just been relating to me what it is he can remember, and his memory apparently stops about the time he met you. I'm hoping you can fill in the gaps. Whether or not he remembers is not as important right now as giving him a sense of continuity. He was just telling me of his years at Annapolis."

Helen took a cleansing breath. Okay, she thought, simple enough. She could color in Gabe's past without revealing her own naive belief that he would be her prince and make her life a fairy tale.

"Annapolis," she repeated, picking up the doctor's cue. "So, you remember your classes?" She addressed this question to Gabe, who nodded grimly. "One of your instructors' names was Commander Troy," she continued. "Do you remember him?"

He nodded slowly, his brow clearing. "Sure," he said. "Naval history. He was the one who encouraged me to be a SEAL."

"You were his favorite student," Helen explained, trying to keep the mockery out of her tone, "older and more experienced than the others. He obviously convinced you, so you went to Coronado for BUD/S training class 223 and you were one of the sixteen who actually graduated. You remember all that?"

"Yes," he said succinctly.

"Then you remember being assigned back on the East Coast," she added.

"I remember," he said, looking glum. "But I lived in the bachelor quarters."

"You did then," she agreed. "But the next summer you went back to Annapolis to visit Commander Troy."

Gabe's eyes roved her face like searchlights. It was clear he'd forgotten that part.

Helen plunged ahead, keeping her story as factual as possible. "And when you did, he introduced you to his younger daughter, and that was when we met."

She knew the second Gabe put her first and last name together, because the corners of his eyes crinkled with appreciation.
Helen Troy.
Yes, her father loved the classics—though she hardly lived up to her name, unless you considered the number of ships that had sailed
away
from her.

"Anyway," she pressed on, determined to put this chore behind her, "within a couple of months, we got married. We bought the house in Sandbridge. The first two years you were home maybe... six or eight months total? Then this last year..." She shrugged, hoping to give the impression that their marriage had been so brief, so uneventful, that it wasn't any wonder he'd forgotten.

But Dr. Terrien's steady gaze assured her that he was on to her. "Mrs. Renault," he said, "what was your impression of Gabriel the first time you met him?"

Drat.
She forced her fingers to uncurl and placed them casually in her lap. A snapshot image of the other Gabe flashed across her mind. "He was ... godlike," she admitted, smoothing the mockery from her tone. "He was handsome and smart and carried himself with so much... confidence." She'd toyed with substituting the word "arrogance," but then she'd chickened out. "I was drawn to him," she added, downplaying her infatuation. Gabe had dazzled her with his charisma and his knee-weakening good looks. His ambition to be the best SEAL ever had met with her approval, back then. He was so different from Zachary, Mallory's father.

"Did you know he would be gone so much?" Dr. Terrien asked. "How did you deal with that?"

Helen considered the question with private recrimination. "I guess I figured that a part-time father for my daughter was better than none at all," she said, misleading them both into thinking that was her main motive for marrying. She didn't want to reveal the truth: that she'd thought herself desperately in love. She could see Gabe out the corner of her eye, regarding her with unmasked astonishment.

"What happened to Mallory's real father?" the doctor wanted to know.

Helen sighed. "Nothing. He's out there somewhere. He's just never been there for her."

The doctor steepled his hands and rubbed his chin along his fingertips. "This case is extremely unusual," he admitted, taking a different tack. "In many cases of trauma, the victim will forget the violence he endured. That's perfectly normal, perhaps even desirable. But Gabriel has also forgotten the two years preceding his disappearance. X rays reveal that he took a blow to his right cheek. Trauma to the frontal lobe may have added to his memory loss. We really don't know.

"But here's what we're going to do," he continued, leaning toward them. "It's my recommendation that we leave Gabriel's memories of captivity dormant for the time being. It's entirely possible to lead a normal life and never remember them. However, you
must
remember the two years prior to that, or both your career and marriage are bound to suffer. Do I have your agreement on that?"

Gabe offered a nod, but he'd averted his gaze, clearly troubled by the doctor's words.

"Helen?"

"Yes, of course," she said quickly. The doctor had picked up pretty quickly that their marriage was on the rocks.

"Good," he said. "I have an assignment for you both."

Uh-oh.
Mutual assignments required a degree of intimacy, and Helen wanted no part of that.

"This evening," he instructed, "I want you to pull out all your photo albums and go through them. If you don't remember anything in the pictures, Gabriel, that's okay. Your wife will interpret them as she remembers them. Let's see if the photos don't stir some memories or prompt some flashbacks. We'll discuss them tomorrow when we meet again."

Helen put a hand up. "Just one thing," she said. "I can't bring him here every day at two o'clock. I have to work." She tried not to sound too stressed.

"How about four o'clock?'

Reconciled to her duties, she gave an inner sigh. She could cancel the afternoon body sculpting and make it by four without too much trouble. "Fine," she agreed. "Four o'clock will work."

The doctor nodded and looked at Gabe. "Do you have anything to add, Gabriel? Any questions for me?"