Asher (Ashes & Embers Book 6) Page 8

  “Don’t be.”

  I hate that my daughter worries about me and doesn’t see me as strong and invincible anymore. I’m supposed to be the protector, the rock of my family. Not the one everyone thinks is living in some kind of delusion and is slowly losing his marbles.

  “I don’t mean to seem selfish or uncaring, Dad. I’m excited and grateful beyond words that Mom is getting better. It’s been hard watching you be lonely and broken for so long.” She grabs Tor’s hand. “We want to see you happy again off stage. That’s all.”

  “Being with your mom is the only thing that’s ever going to put me back together and make me happy. Helping her recover is all I care about.”

  Chapter Ten

  I remember the butterflies.

  There were always so many butterflies.

  Big ones and itty-bitty ones.

  Their wings vibrant, fluttering rainbows.

  And the sky was always blue, with big puffy clouds that I could reach up and touch with my fingertips.

  It was always daytime. The dark never came.

  It never rained.

  Soft music filled the air along with the chirping of birds and crickets, heard but never seen.

  Time stood still.

  I was veiled in soft light and peace.

  Just me and my butterflies.

  Then they were gone.

  And everything went black.

  This guy is back again.

  I can’t remember his name, but he’s the one with the long, wild hair and tattoos all the way down to his fingertips.

  And the sad eyes that make me want to pull the blanket over my head.

  I can’t tell time, but the nurse told me I’ve been awake for twenty-eight days, and the man comes every day.

  He’s brought more flowers again, even though the ones he came with before are still alive. “Shouldn’t they die first?” I ask as he puts the new vase on the table next to my bed.

  His hand hesitates over the old bouquet before he picks it up.

  “Um...yeah. I guess you’re right. But I always bring you new flowers every day.”

  “Why?”

  “So you’d have something pretty every day to know I was thinking about you.”

  “But I couldn’t see them.”

  He shrugs. “I still wanted you to have them.”

  “Do I like flowers?”

  I watch him put what might be yesterday’s flowers on the table by the door. He’s smiling when he turns back around and walks toward the bed.

  He takes up a lot of space. He’s tall and broad and...solid. But also, something else.

  Calming.

  He always smells good—like sandalwood, frankincense, leather, and nutmeg. It’s like he has his own unique scent. Like snow.

  I don’t understand why I can remember smells but not anything about myself.

  “You tell me,” he says with a grin. “Do you like flowers?”

  Do I?

  My mind immediately blanks out.

  “I—I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

  Smiling, he sits on the edge of the bed where he usually does. “Instead of trying to remember, maybe try it this way. When you look at them now, do they make you happy?” He picks up the small vase and holds it so I can look at the flowers closely. “Do you like the colors, the shape of the petals?”

  I stare at the little bell-shaped purple flowers and reach out to touch a petal. It’s soft and velvety.

  “It’s nice.”

  “Do you think you’d like to see more? Maybe different colors and shapes?”

  “No.” I grab the vase from him and set it on my lap. “I want these to stay. I want to watch them live.”

  “Okay, then they’ll stay right here with you.”

  A nurse comes in to take my blood pressure and temperature. I watch the man when he moves to look out the window as the nurse checks me over. I’d like to move to the window too, but I’m hooked up to machines and a feeding tube—seemingly permanently attached to the bed. The doctor said I’ll be moving to a new room soon to start therapy and hopefully to begin eating on my own.

  Everyone seems excited about food, but I don’t even know what I like to eat, so for now, I’m much more excited about keeping my purple velvet plant.

  “How are you feeling today?” the nurse asks.

  “Good.”

  “Can you tell me your name?”

  This question is asked every time a doctor or nurse visits me, and it always feels like a test.

  Or a trap.

  The answer doesn’t ever pop into my mind easily, or naturally, or without a quick zap to my head.

  “Amber?” I say.

  “Ember,” the nurse says with a smile. “But you were very close.”

  “I like Amber. Maybe that’s my real name?”

  “No, sweetheart. Your real name is Ember. I think it’s very romantic that you and your husband have names that go together.”

  “What’s his name?”

  She glances at the man by the window. “His name is Asher.”

  I crinkle my nose. “Asher and Ember is dumb names.”

  “You used to think it was fate,” the man says in his soft, deep voice. “You thought it was a sign our love would burn forever. No matter what.”

  His voice matches his eyes now, and I don’t like the strange niggling feeling it stirs in my stomach.

  The nurse smiles again. “Well, I’d say you two are an amazing example of love burning forever. I’ll be back in about an hour to check on you again.”

  There’s a big clock on the wall, but the numbers mean nothing to me.

  “Why are you still here?” I ask after the nurse leaves the room.

  He blinks at me before he returns to his spot at the edge of my bed. I can’t decide if I like him there or not.

  “I’m here because I love you.”

  “I don’t know you.”

  “But I know you. You’re my wife and my best friend.”

  “So, you’re just always...here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t you have a job to be at?”

  He laughs softly, and I don’t understand why. “Yes, but I don’t have to work every day.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m a musician. I have a little...” He tilts his head to the side, and his hair falls into his face in a way that should be messy but isn’t. Instead, it makes him look endearing. “Freedom to do what I want.”

  “Are you poor?”

  His lips curve into a smile. “Do I look poor?”

  I nod. “Kind of. You need a haircut. And...” I lick my lips nervously. “All those inks. I think maybe you’re a bad guy.”

  “A bad guy?” he repeats, attempting to hide a grin, but failing. “You mean like someone who was in prison?”

  “Yes,” I whisper, suddenly feeling afraid. What if the nurses and doctors don’t know he’s a bad guy? What if he’s the one who made me be here?

  “Ember,” he says softly. “I’m not a bad guy at all. I’ve never broken the law or been in jail. I’ve never hurt anyone. I promise you that’s the truth.”

  Bad guys lie, so who knows if he’s telling the truth?

  “If you say so.”

  “Do you want to know a little more?”

  “I guess, yes.”

  “We—you and I—are musicians. We’re not poor at all. And you’ve always loved my long hair. You’ve begged me to never cut it.”

  Ridiculous. Fibs.

  “No. I don’t believe that. Or the hair. I don’t like any of it.”

  “It’s all true. Look...” He stands and walks around the bed to take a photo off the wall. I haven’t looked at the photos since the last time he handed me one. “Here’s you and I on stage when we had a band together years ago.”

  I’m afraid to look at the photo when he hands it to me, but I force myself to. A man and woman are on a stage with their arms around each other with bright lights shining down on them. The man is defi
nitely him.

  The woman is the same from the photo he showed me with him and the little girl. In this photo, she’s wearing a black leather jacket and jeans with holes in them and boots with high heels. Her hair is long like his.

  Warmth floods over me, and that odd zapping pain stings my head.

  Scared by the sensations, I thrust the photo back at him. “That can’t be me.”

  “It is.” He returns the frame to its place then sits on the bed again. “Are you okay? I don’t want to upset you.”

  “I—I don’t know.” I rub my temple. “Sometimes my head is hurt.”

  His eyes go darker and sadder. “Is the pain bad? Should I call the nurse?”

  “It’s when I try to remember, I think?”

  “Maybe your brain is trying too hard to remember. It’s been resting for a long time.”

  “I don’t want to remember that picture. I don’t like how it makes me feel.”

  “Okay. No one is going to force you to do or like anything.”

  “I hope not. My life is scary.”

  “I’m sure it seems that way, but you were actually very happy.”

  I would like to feel happy.

  “With you?” I ask. “And the little one? With music?”

  “Yes. We were very happy and in love. We both loved our life together. We always said we were living our dream.”

  Happy. Love. Dreams. All seems so very odd.

  “I don’t feel any of it. I feel...nothing.” I’m afraid to tell anyone that all I mostly feel is fear and anxiety.

  “That’s okay. Everything is going to be okay. You’ll see.”

  His eyes are like miniature televisions. I can see everything in them, and he’s not okay with any of this.

  In fact, his head might be hurt worse than mine.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Where are the people?” she fires at me when I return to her room after sneaking out for lunch while she took a nap. Now she’s wide awake and full of curiosity.

  “Which people?”

  A flash of confusion wrinkles her forehead.

  “My people. Family? Friends?”

  “You have a sister, Katherine. And our daughter, Kenzi. They both want to come visit you, but I wanted to ask you first. To make sure you’re ready to meet with them.”

  “I think I am.”

  “I’ll tell them they can visit. They’re both excited to see you.” I clear my throat. “Our friend, Toren, will probably stop by too. He’s been our friend since high school. You two were very close. You have more friends who’ll come once the doctor gives the okay for you to have more visitors.”

  I’ll attempt to explain the more difficult details about Kenzi and Tor to Ember later. First, I have to tell her our daughter is almost twenty-two years old.

  “Good. I want to see other people. I’m a little bored with just you.”

  I could just lay here in your arms forever and never want or need anything, or anyone else...

  Nodding, I bury the memory back in the graveyard of my mind with all the others that keep trying to crawl out to haunt me.

  “Yeah. I guess I’m not very exciting.”

  “Is she nice? The little girl?”

  I sit on the end of the bed. Underneath the blanket, she moves her feet a few inches away from me.

  All these subtle, yet glaring, actions are like knives plunged into my chest. One after the other, each one cutting deeper than the last.

  “I think you’ll like her a lot. But she’s not a little girl like in the picture anymore. She’s twenty-one years old now.”

  Her eyes fixate on me, unblinking, for several uncomfortably long moments that remind me way too much of the coma-stare.

  “Ember?”

  Her eyes blink rapidly. “Tw—Twenty-one? Age?”

  “Yes.”

  She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth.

  “How old am I?” she whispers, her eyes shimmery dark oceans of fear.

  “You’re thirty-six,” I reply softly.

  “No.” She shakes her head. “That’s not true.”

  She grabs the bar on the side of the bed and stares around the room in terror. “I’m not. I’m not. I’m not,” she chants as tears stream down her cheeks.

  “It’s okay. Please don’t be scared...”

  “How many longs was I asleep?”

  When the doctor informed her how long she’d been in a coma, she appeared totally unfazed at the time. But now—now it seems to have suddenly sunk in.

  “Almost eight years.”

  She gasps, choking on her tears. “Eight years?” she squeaks.

  Nodding, I scoot up the bed closer to her and cover her shaking hands with mine. “It’s a long time, I know. A lot’s changed.” I gently wipe her damp cheek with my thumb, and she leans slightly into my touch. “People. Things. Life. But we’re still here, and we still love you. We’re all going to help you catch up.”

  She watches my lips as I talk, weighing every word.

  Walking that fine line of trusting a total stranger—a world of strangers—with her life.

  With her past and her future.

  And most importantly, her present.

  The way she’s looking at my lips stirs an ache to kiss her. Just one soft kiss—the magic band-aid we’ve used a million times when nothing else could ease fear, stress, or pain.

  One kiss would fix so much for me. It would breathe life into my dying heart and give me hope that there’s still an… us.

  But that same kiss won’t fix anything for her.

  I resort to squeezing her hands in mine, and she squeezes back, wrapping her fingers around my thumb.

  “I’m so scared.” Her gaze sweeps over all the photographs on the wall. “My life is just...gone. I’m a big nothing. I have a daughter I don’t know. A sister. What about parents?”

  I let out a low breath. “That’s complicated.”

  “What is?”

  “Your parents.”

  “Why? Are—are they dead?”

  “No, nothing like that. They’re alive.”

  But you’re dead to them.

  “Then why complicated?”

  “We can talk about all that another time. When you’re feeling better.”

  She narrows her eyes to slits and pulls her hands out from under mine, extinguishing the tiny amount of trust we’d built.

  “Please talk now. You can’t pick what I know.”

  I run my hand through my hair and stifle a sigh. I really didn’t want to go down this long-detoured road so soon. Or ever, really.

  “You’re right. I have no right to keep things from you. I just don’t want to upset you. It’s kinda my thing...to protect you and make sure you’re happy.” I wink at her and rest my hand on her leg just below her knee.

  She shifts her eyes to my hand. Is she looking at the wedding band I never take off? Or is she annoyed?

  Maybe not annoyed. Uninterested.

  My words. My touch. The affection in my voice. The adoration she must see in my eyes—all have no effect on her.

  She seems completely immune to me.

  “I’m going to be upset a lot, mister. You can’t stop it.”

  Mister. Not Ash or honey or sweetheart or love or Valentine.

  “I want to stop it, though. I don’t want you to ever feel scared or lonely or sad.”

  “Where are my parents?” She pins me with an impatient stare.

  I rub my beard, searching for the right words to explain the situation, but there aren’t any right words because all of it is so wrong. It always has been. “You haven’t seen your parents in a long time. They came to the hospital the day of your accident. They’ve visited four times since then, all during the first year. Before that, you hadn’t seen them since you were fifteen years old. You were twenty-eight when you had the accident.”

  “But...” She rubs her forehead and looks toward the wall of photographs. “Why?”

  “Your parents are old-fashioned. T
hey were very strict when you were young. When you got pregnant with Kenzi, they were mad. They wanted you to have an abortion, but you refused. We refused. They wanted to send you away to some relative in California. But instead, you came to live with my family, and we kept the baby. They never forgave you, and you never forgave them, either.”

  The confusion on her face is utterly heartbreaking, and I wish her asshole parents were here to see the damage they’ve done to her. But they’ve always hidden from reality, pretending she was dead rather than accepting her and our child. Or, God forbid, visiting her in this hospital over the years.

  “I don’t understand. Why would they do that?”

  “Because you were only fifteen when we got pregnant.”

  Her mouth gapes open, and she stares at me like I’m a monster. “No.” She shakes her head and moves her body away from mine with such a look of disgust, I’m surprised she doesn’t kick me off the edge of her bed. “I don’t believe that.”

  “It’s true, Em. We kept the baby and got married right out of high school.”

  “This is...this is shit,” she says.

  A quick laugh escapes me. “I guess that’s one way of putting it.”

  “Why did you do that to me? Get me pregnant so young? It’s very bad.”

  Her accusation stabs deep into my heart, penetrating that special place just for her and Kenzi that no one could ever touch or tear apart. “I didn’t force you, Em. Not ever. We were in love, and we just weren’t careful enough. I was only fifteen too.”

  “We shouldn’t have been doing that.”

  “Well, yeah, thinking back now, I agree we were too young and had no idea what we were doing. But that’s how kids are—they do what they want. We were happy and in love, and we were each other’s firsts, and we got carried away one night. It was the first time we had sex, and we didn’t do it again for a long time after. Like over a year.”

  “This is lies. I wouldn’t have a baby. Or leave my parents. I—I can’t feel that at all.” She pulls the blanket up to her shoulders like she’s trying to shield herself from me and her past. “It’s all bad wrong.”

  “It’s hard to understand, but it’s true. You wanted the baby. We both did.”

  And me. You wanted me.

  “I lived with strangers?”