Archetype (6 page)

N
oah finds the metal chair and opens it. The legs vibrate audibly over the tile as he places it in front of my tube. He stands over the metal seat, hesitating, eyeing it as if he thinks it may swallow him whole. At last, he eases down and settles in.

His hair is short now and looks closer to brown than blond. The waves are hidden in this shorter cut, and the top is styled with messy lifts and spikes. It is the first time I have seen him so cleanly shaven, and this makes him look nice. Handsome.

When he looks up at me, it is in silence, and I really study him for the first time. He has a sharply angled chin and nice, full lips. His nose is narrow. His eyes, wide set, are a shocking shade of amber surrounded by thick, dark lashes. The almond shape angles down on either side, dipping into smile lines.

Yes, he is handsome. Very handsome.

He leans forward on his knees. His gaze finds the floor, and a minute later, he hoods his eyes with a hand. His back heaves and jerks and I realize he is crying. My captor, the man who will not let me go, cries. I do not understand this change of events.

Where is the angry man from before? Him, I understood.

When the door opens a minute later, Sonya strolls in with a small entourage of men. They all come to an abrupt stop and Sonya’s arm flies up to hold the others back. A moment later, she ushers them back out of the room, asking for a few minutes alone.

Noah pinches his eyes and the bridge of his nose. He runs a hand over his face and sighs. “Sorry,” he says. “I thought you’d be gone for a while.”

“My schedule changed. I’m glad you came.”

He looks up at me and his eyes are an amber flame.

“And you cleaned up,” she adds.

“Yeah. Thought it would make me feel human again.” One side of his mouth jerks, threatening a smile that never comes. His eyes cast down again. “I’m still numb.”

Sonya rolls a round stool over and straddles it. She is close enough to touch him but does not. “We all are. It was a shock to everyone.”

His face crumbles and he presses his forehead into his palms. “My wife is dead.”

The words hold a heavy release in them, and there is shock enough on Sonya’s face at hearing them said aloud that she turns away from him. From me. She does not look but reaches a hand out and lays it unmoving on his heaving shoulder.

“She was the best of all of us,” he says after a while. “The strongest.”

“A part of her lives on,” Sonya whispers.

Noah nods and looks up at me. Tears stream unhindered over his cheeks. It seems to take everything he has to utter the following words. “Her name is Adrienne.”

 • • • 

I run to forget the dream. It is no longer a nightmare. I do not know when this changed, but I am no longer frightened of Noah. He is sad. They all are. I feel their sadness as if it is my own, and I do not understand why. It is only a dream and, given a name, has nothing to do with me.

Adrienne.

It is a beautiful name,
She says, and She is as sad as they are.

Declan enters the room and smiles broadly at me. My heart leaps at the sight of him, and I run into his open arms. He does not seem to mind my sweat-coated skin even though he wears a nice suit. He kisses me and swings me up into his strong arms.

“I have missed you. Where have you been?” I ask breathlessly, fingering back hair that has fallen over his forehead.

“Oh, don’t ask,” he growls and sets me on my feet. “Business, but it’s over now. I called to check on you every day. Arthur said you’re painting?”

I nod. “Yes. I like it.”

“And good at it from what I understand. I can’t wait to see.”

A new weight sinks in my stomach. “I did not paint before now?” Even I have to admit my paintings are good. I assumed Dr. Travista left everything knowing I would pick the hobby back up.

“Not in the time I’ve known you,” he says, then his hand strokes my cheek and pinches my chin to angle my head up more. His lips press to my forehead and the tip of my nose. Finally, my lips. “I missed you.”

“Then you did not miss much,” I say and laugh.

His expression turns serious. “I missed everything.”

I cup his neck in my palms and bring his lips back to mine. They are warm and pliable and, when his tongue strokes mine a moment later, hungry.

I come to my senses—not an easy feat—and push away from him. “I should shower. I am going to ruin your nice suit.” It is the dark blue today. My favorite.

“I don’t care about my suit, but while you do that, I’ll just check in with Arthur.”

We stroll hand in hand to my floor, where we part outside my room. It takes only a moment to retrieve a clean set of scrubs and another ten minutes to shower.

I walk into my room, towel-drying my hair, and find Declan flipping through the canvases leaning against one wall. Dr. Travista says he will have someone come by to hang them for me.

“You like beaches,” he says. It is not a question.

My chest tightens and I have an urge to explain, as if he has caught me doing something bad, but why should I? I have done nothing wrong. They are only beaches.

“It is the photograph.” I point to the wall behind me, where the photograph of the ocean hangs. “I have spent many nights wondering what the rest of that beach must look like.”

He nods, and when he smiles at me, it is tight. His eyelids narrow slightly. “You’re very talented, Emma.”

Questions are burning a trail through me, none of which he will have the answer to if my painting is new for him, too. Like where I learned to paint. Why I am drawn to the beach and why he seems disturbed by it.

Questions best left unsaid,
She says, and I am inclined to agree for once. There is something about this that bothers my husband, and I do not want to fuel this fire.

I lay down my towel and force myself to smile. “Thank you. I will try painting something new. Is there anything you would like to see?”

His expression softens and he takes me into his arms. “The mountains. Do you have any memory of our home yet?”

I shake my head. “No. Not yet.”

“I will bring you some pictures. Arthur says it is a good time to try and jog your memory.”

My smile is genuine now. “Really? I cannot wait.”

 • • • 

Today I decide to leave the safety of my hallway. Dr. Travista has already disappeared into the room with the woman he calls “dear.” I spy a painting near the cross section and do not waste time.

Act like you belong,
She says.
That’s the key.

I do. At least, I hope I do. I run my fingers over the paintings as I pass, stopping to analyze paint strokes. It is everything I do in my hallway.

I am nearing my goal and passing the door I suspect to be a room for travel, where all the colors enter or exit. I slow my pace only a little, hoping the door will slide open and give me a peek inside. In my peripheral, the silver doors slide apart and two white lab coats emerge. As casually as I can manage, I kneel and lift a pant leg to scratch my ankle. It is enough to allow me the view of several rows of clear plastic tubes that reach from floor to ceiling and are large enough to hold up to three people, if I had to guess.

Those take you out of the building,
She tells me.
Probably to other floors, too. They’re teleportation units. Teleport. Teleporting. Teleportation. You know, teleporters.

Teleporters?

There is the sensation that She is now rolling Her eyes.
They split you into a million different pieces and send your bits to your destination. You tell it where you want to port and it sends you there. Get it? Tell—a—port.

This gives me pause and I blink at the painting I finally come to without really looking at it.
That sounds dangerous.

She sighs.
It used to be. Eons of years ago.

I know She exaggerates about eons. She is using Her sarcastic, bored voice. She is never patient with my questions.

This is how I will get home,
I say.

Yes, Padawan learner. This is how you will get home.

What is a Pa—

Never mind.

“Mrs. Burke.”

I turn to face the red coat, whom I somehow had not noticed before. “Yes?”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to escort you back to your section of the hospital.”

“I am waiting on Dr. Travista.” I cannot let this man take me back when I am so close.

“I’m only doing my job, ma’am. Please come with me.”

Squaring my shoulders, I begin to refuse a second time, but behind me, the hospital room door slides aside. Dr. Travista begins to exit, his head bent to look at a tablet computer he holds. I look past him to the woman sitting in a wheelchair and bite back a gasp. She looks a lot older, her brown hair streaked with gray, but I have stared and stared at her picture for months.

Jodi. The woman Dr. Travista said died, or so I thought. His exact words were “has been gone,” but how else was I supposed to interpret that? And maybe he had not lied, because she sits limp in a chair, jaw slack, her stare devoid of life.

I shift my focus to the red coat, who refuses to leave, the moment I see Dr. Travista raise his head in my peripheral.

“Emma?” He is quick to steer me away by the elbow. “What are you doing here?” He waves off the disgruntled red coat as if batting at a fly.

“I apologize for bothering you,” I say. I am finding it difficult to focus on the lie I have devised, but I manage what I hope is an apologetic smile. “I saw you enter this room and tried to catch you. Was it okay that I waited?”

He glances between me and the now shut room. “Of course. What can I do for you?”

I lift my right hand. “My wrist has been aching a little. From painting, maybe. I was hoping for a pain reliever?”

We stop in the epicenter. The male staff flow around us like water around rock. I let Dr. Travista examine my wrist, which is perfectly fine, watching him carefully through my lashes. His expression gives nothing away, so I imagine he does not feel caught in his lie. This can only mean I have been successful in fooling him, which is surprising considering I am screaming on the inside. The woman he claims to love, Jodi, is
alive,
and I am dying to find out what has happened to her.

Dr. Travista releases my hand. “There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong, but we could take some images—”

“It is only a little throbbing.”

He studies me for a protracted moment, then nods. “All right. Pain reliever it is, then. But if the pain persists, I will have to insist on images.”

I nod. “Yes, of course. Thank you.”

Dr. Travista leads me down the hallway toward his office, and we pass the same lounge with the same beige furniture and red pillows, but one thing is not the same. A girl with a man I have never seen before. She stares out the window over the snow-white day with blank eyes. Her cropped blond hair is short like a man’s and she is very, very thin. I think she is no more than skin over bones.

Whoa,
She says.
Somebody needs to feed the waif.

The man wears a nice suit like one Declan might wear. He is not as tall as my husband but is just as well groomed. His face is set into hard lines and every part of me wishes to run, but I am frozen by the sight of yet another woman. After all this time of seeing not a single woman outside my dreams, I see two in one day, and neither of them seems capable of interaction.

“My name is Chuck,” the man says. “I’m your husband.”

She does not respond, and his face flushes a deep purple. He slams a palm to the table between them and she does not blink. She only stares.

Orderlies rush by me, grazing my shoulder, followed soon by Dr. Travista. They move as if I do not exist.

“Patience,” Dr. Travista tells this man. “You can’t rush her progress, and you must take special care not to frighten her.”

The orderlies lift the woman from her chair and lead her away.

A hand slips into mine and I jump. “Declan,” I say breathily, holding a hand over my drumming heart. “When did you arrive?”

“A little while ago.” He answers me but watches the scene inside the room. “I see you’ve stumbled across your new floor mate.”

Which one?
“Floor mate?”

He wraps an arm over my shoulder and maneuvers me toward my bedroom. “Her name is Ruby. She had an accident like you.”

“Like me?” I stop and turn to watch the orderlies lead Ruby down the hall. She does not take a single step without the guidance of one of the orderlies. “Declan, was I like that, too?”

He is hesitant to answer but finally says, “Yes. It’s the most difficult time.” He lifts my chin to take back my attention, smiles in that soft, loving way of his, and brushes my hair back. “You’re much better now. And if Chuck is patient, Ruby will be better, too.”

Movement nearby grabs our attention and we turn to see Dr. Travista leaving the lounge with Chuck. The man does a double take when he sees me and leaves the doctor’s side without a word. Dr. Travista’s mouth freezes in the middle of a sentence but he follows a moment later.

My muscles lock and warning bells go off in my head. I do not know this man, but his reaction to his wife a moment ago tells me he is not a kind person. And he is heading right for
me.

Declan angles to stand in front of me. “Charles,” he says in a cool tone.

The man points a stubby finger around my husband at me. “I want to talk to her.”

“No.” Simple. Direct.

He lays fisted hands on his hips, making his suit jacket flare. “I need to know I’m not wasting my money.”

Declan glances back at me very quickly. “You aren’t.”

Chuck or Charles narrows his eyes. “The video—”

“Watch what you say in front of my wife,” Declan says, and this time his even tone sends icicles over my spine.

Chuck’s gaze jumps between Declan and me. “I need more proof. I don’t like wasting my time. You never said it would be like”—he waves absently toward the lounge—“
that.
”