She’s chosenmeto be the one person on the planet she trusts. I’ll be damned, rotted, and buried before I deny that calling.
“It’s gonna be okay,” I whisper. “I promise.”
ROUND ELEVEN
JANE
Heathcliff loves Catherine Earnshaw. Count Alexei Vronsky lusts for Anna Karenina. And my favorite so far, Mr. Darcyadoresthe very ground Elizabeth Bennet walks upon. The air she breathes. He begs for every minuscule scrap of time she’s willing to give, and dammit, he’ll do anything to secure a single moment more.
These are the things I read, passing time inside a white-walled hospital room while, outside, the world continues to turn and snow drifts from the sky. While machines beep and hospital staff go about their work. My entire existence is an exercise in sensory deprivation. But at least I have books for the hours Ollie is too busy to hang around my room. Better yet, I know who Elizabeth Bennet is. And Mr. Darcy. Mr. Collins, even. I know Anna Karenina left her home in Russia and flittered off to be with her lover.
I know these things.
Irememberthem!
Thrilled with my realization, I set Pride and Prejudice aside and pick up Gone With The Wind instead, eagerly flicking through the pages as names—familiarnames—stand out against the stark white pages.
Scarlet. Rhett. Ashley.
I’ve read this one, too!
“I want you to try these out.”
“Argh!” I jump and spin toward my door, narrowing my eyes as Ollie dashes into my room so fast, his white coat flaps in his wake. Then I jump again when he plops a paper grocery bag onto my rolling table.
“Dammit, Oliver.” To Kill A Mockingbird topples into my lap, thesharp corner digging into my thigh. “Can younotscare a woman already struggling with noise and sudden movements, please?” I shift on my bed, straightening my back and crossing my legs, then re-stacking my book pile, I pull the side of the paper bag down and peek inside. “What’s all this?”
He whips the tails of his coat aside and perches on the edge of my bed, digging a hand into his pockets and taking out not one, buttwopudding cups. Chocolate. And vanilla. He extends his hands the way he’s done a million times before, allowing me to choose whichever I think I’d prefer. So when I select the chocolate, he grins and drops his hand back into his pocket for spoons. “I’ve had a crazy busy day, ‘cos these kids thought it would be funny to ski down Breakneck Hill, but, like… without skis. Or helmets. Or a single shred of common sense.” He peels his vanilla cup open and licks a smudge from his thumb. “It’s called Breakneck Hill for a reason. Idiots.”
Mr. Darcy, who? I cast the men of classic literature aside and peel my cup open. “Did anyone break their neck?”
“Nope. But we’ve got a shattered collarbone, three fractured wrists—two of them belong to one person—and a whole buncha parents screaming atmelike I’m the one who shoved their babies off a mountain.”
“Did you tell them to shut the hell up?”
He chuckles, his bouncing exhale pulling the tension from his shoulders and allowing him—finally—a moment to relax. His cheeks warm and his eyes dance, and because I’m not sure he matured beyond a high schooler in the school cafeteria, he licks the pudding lid clean with a long, almost inappropriate swipe of his tongue. “I told them to go fuck themselves. In my head, that is. I saidyes ma’amandno sirout loud, and I promised the kids I’d make it hurt a thousand times more unless they got their families under control.”
“Pretty sure that’s a crime.”
He snickers. “Only if I get caught. Now I have cast dust in my eyes, not enough caffeine in my veins, and a hankering for pudding. And you…” He looks my precarious pile of books up and down. “Read fast, evidently. How long was I gone?”
“I didn’t read them all from front to back.”
“So you cheated and flipped to the end?”
“No. I started reading one and realized the names were familiar to me. Turns out, I’d read it before.”
“And you remembered?” He drinks his pudding like a shot of liquor, slamming the cup to the table, then he snatches up a book and flips it open. “You’re remembering things?”
“I remembered I love reading love stories, and that I never really caredfor Anna Karenina, because she left her child behind.” I scoop pudding up with my spoon and lay the cool, smooth dessert on my tongue. “She cheated on her husband, which already casts doubt on her character. But leaving her child behind is a line I’m not comfortable with. I don’t hate her, but I don’t like her either.”
“Studies show that patients suffering memory loss after a TBI typically regain their memories through emotion and senses. Smells, fabrics, even hugs. Theoretically, the emotion you felt is the memory, and if you recreate that emotion, the memory is more likely to return.”
“So… Anna Karenina?”
“I suppose, in her case, the emotion wasunhappiness. You never agreed with her choices, and the way you felt when you first read her story stamped itself onto your soul. Reading it again now means bringing that old emotion back to the surface.” He sets the first book down and snags Pride and Prejudice. “Mr. Darcy’s uptight snootiness and unpleasant treatment of Elizabeth probably pissed you off, too.”
“Absolutely not.” I snatch the book back and cradle my sweet Mr. Darcy against my chest. “He was uptight because societyexpectedhim to love a certain type of woman from a certain type of family. He didn’t, because he couldn’t. He loved Elizabeth. Unconditionally. Irrevocably.”
