Читать книгу From the Beginning - Tracy Wolff, Tracy Wolff - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

WITH THAT PARTING SHOT, Amanda turned away and headed toward the sleeping tents. And though every instinct he had demanded he follow her, Simon chose instead to stay where he was and simply watch her walk away. He’d known her long enough to recognize when she needed some time alone.

But the hollow feeling that had haunted him for the past eighteen months grew stronger with each step she took in the opposite direction.

Was this how she’d felt, he wondered, all those times when he’d been the one to walk away? When he’d chosen a story over her—and over their daughter? If so, he had even more to feel guilty about than he’d imagined.

He watched her until she disappeared inside one of the small tents set aside for the doctors, then watched some more—waiting, he supposed, to see if she was going to come back out and finish their discussion. It wasn’t likely, of course, but hope hung around—for a little while, anyway.

Right when he’d decided that he was going to have to go after her, he felt a large hand clap him on the shoulder. He turned to see the man who had started them down this path so many years before—and who was also responsible for this latest detour—standing in front of him with a definite scowl on his face.

“I had decided you weren’t going to come,” Jack said as he shook his head. “If I’d known you were due in today, I might have gone a little easier on Amanda earlier.”

Simon thought of Amanda’s red-rimmed eyes and felt every muscle in his body tighten. Jack was one of his closest friends, as well, but no one had the right to turn Amanda inside out like that. “What did you say to her?”

Jack eyed his clenched fists with interest, and Simon could feel himself flush. There was nothing quite like laying all your cards on the table for the world to see.

“I told her the same thing I told you. That she was exhausted and had to go home for a while.”

“She’s not going to want to go. That house—” His throat started to close up, so he stopped and took a few deep breaths. “That house is filled with memories of Gabby.”

“Hence the reason I didn’t sideline her sooner. She needs a reason to get up in the morning, and without her work, I don’t think she has one anymore. That’s why I emailed you.”

Simon wanted to think that Jack was exaggerating, but he couldn’t now that he’d seen Amanda himself. “I’m not that reason, never have been. Besides, it’s pretty obvious she can’t stand the sight of me.”

“Yeah, well, you’re going to have to find a way around that.”

Simon snorted. “I’m sorry. Have you met Dr. Amanda Jacobs? She’s not exactly the easiest person to get—”

“Listen to me, Simon. I know what I’m talking about. She can’t be on her own right now. If she goes back to the States by herself and rents some small apartment somewhere because she can’t deal with the memories, I don’t think she’s going to make it.”

Everything inside of him went cold at Jack’s assessment—so cold that he actually shivered, despite the harsh rays of the sun beating down on him. “You think—” Simon’s voice broke for the second time in as many minutes and he had to clear his throat a few times before he could force any words through. “You really think she’s suicidal?”

Jack paused, looked past him to the barren desert that surrounded them. “I’m not sure how to answer that.”

“It isn’t that difficult. Either you think she’ll try to kill herself or you don’t.”

“It’s not that simple. Do I think Amanda will actively try to kill herself? No. But—” he continued, before Simon could relax “—I don’t think she wants to live, either. I think she’s gotten to the point where she’s too apathetic to do anything about it, one way or the other.”

Simon tried to read between the lines. “So what are you saying? You don’t think she cares enough to kill herself? Is that even possible?”

“I’m not a psychiatrist, Simon. I’m not sure what’s possible or what isn’t in this case. I’m just telling you what I think, what I’ve observed over the past few months. Amanda gave up caring about what happens to herself a long time ago. That’s why I let her stay here this long, even though I’ve known almost since she got here that she was eventually going to break.

“I tried to get through to her, tried to keep her busy. Let her work almost exclusively with the children—the only thing that brings her around is when she’s working toward healing a child.” He shook his head. “But it’s not enough. Things are dire here and getting worse every day. She lost a patient today—the third this week—and she didn’t handle it well.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means she almost had a nervous breakdown in the middle of the O.R. And I believe, really believe, that if she could have crawled onto that gurney with Mabulu and died alongside him, she would have. I’ve never seen her like that before, not in all the years we’ve known each other, and it scared me—so much that I relieved her of her duties and told her I’d block any application she made to work with another clinic. At least for a while.”

Simon was having a hard time getting his mind around what Jack was saying. The picture the other man was painting was of a woman so far removed from the Amanda he knew that she was almost unrecognizable. Amanda was the one everyone turned to in a crisis—she was the one who never fell apart, who always knew what to do.

That had obviously changed, and he was suddenly at as much of a loss as Jack was. How the hell was he supposed to fix a woman who’d never been broken before, especially when she couldn’t stand the sight of him?

What was he supposed to do?

He hadn’t been aware that he said the last aloud, until Jack grimly responded, “My best advice? You get her out of here—tonight. You get her home, get her to a doctor and to a counselor. And then you wait.”

“For how long?” Waiting wasn’t exactly Simon’s strong suit.

“For as long as it takes. It took her at least a year and a half to get into this state. She isn’t going to come out of it overnight.”

Simon thought, briefly, of the stories he had lined up. Of the exclusive access he’d managed to finagle behind the Israeli wall after six years of pulling in favors.

Of the upcoming Middle East peace talks in Europe that he was supposed to cover.

Of the story he had started investigating in South America, and of the documentary he had already gotten footage for in Afghanistan. He’d been putting that story together, off and on, for months now, and it had Edward R. Murrow Award written all over it. He could almost taste the award and so could his director.

He closed his eyes and with a sigh let them all go. For more than a decade, Amanda had taken second and third and sometimes even two hundredth place to his work. This time, everything else was going to have to wait.

DESPITE HIS BEST INTENTIONS, the sun was setting before Simon finally caught up to Amanda again. Wanting to give her some space, he’d spent part of the afternoon shadowing Jack in the clinic. But by the time he went to the tents to find her, she’d been long gone and he’d spent much of the early evening searching the clinic and village for her—and cursing himself for letting her out of his sight. Especially after what Jack had told him.

In the end, he’d had to ask the other doctor where Amanda might have wandered off to—which had grated, since every time he opened his mouth it felt as if the other man was condemning him for his callous treatment of her through the years.

Then again, maybe it was his own conscience doing all the condemning.

The surgeon had pointed him toward the desert, and Simon had followed his directions until he’d happened upon her, about a mile and a half away—in the middle of an empty stretch of dry, cracked sand.

She was sitting on a large, flat rock, her knees drawn up so that she could rest her chin on them, and she looked so young, so vulnerable, that it was hard for him to imagine it had been so many years since he’d first met her.

Five years since he’d last held her, loved her.

And before today, eighteen months since he’d so much as laid eyes on her.

Part of him wanted to rush up to her, to wrap her in his arms and pretend that everything was the same. That they were still lovers, still friends.

Still parents.

But another part, the one that was buried under guilt and pain and his own anger, couldn’t help wondering how much more rejection he could stand.

At Gabrielle’s funeral, Amanda had frozen him out so completely that he still hadn’t thawed a year and a half later. It had been a defense mechanism, a way to bury her own pain—but knowing that hadn’t made it hurt any less.

They’d stopped being lovers not long after Gabrielle was born. Amanda had feared that what they’d had together wasn’t stable enough to raise a child and he’d gone along because he hadn’t wanted a relationship that would tie him down. But they’d remained friends, right up until their daughter had died.

Then Amanda had excised him from her life with such brutal efficiency he swore he could still feel the blade.

But this wasn’t about him, he reminded himself fiercely as he struggled for something to say. This was about Amanda, about getting her well again.

“If you’re going to spend all evening skulking in the shadows, don’t be surprised if someone mistakes you for a rebel and shoots you.” Her words were cool and collected, a marked difference from their earlier meeting.

“I didn’t want to disturb you—I figured you might shoot me yourself if I did.”

“I’m not the bloodthirsty type.” She still hadn’t bothered to look at him. “I would have thought you’d know that by now.”

“Yeah, well, people change.”

“More like circumstances change them.”

There was an underlying bitterness to her tone that had him moving forward and sinking down beside her on the rock. She didn’t protest as he expected her to. Instead, she scooted over to make more room for him. He wanted to think of it as progress, but Jack’s words haunted him—especially when he got his first glimpse of her blank face. It was as if the Amanda he’d known had simply disappeared, leaving only this shell of a woman behind.

She didn’t say anything else, and for the longest time, neither did he. He was too caught up in how strange it felt to be near her again, yet how eerily familiar, as well. She smelled the same as she always had—like lavender and peaches and cool spring evenings— despite the heat and dust of the surrounding desert. Strange how nothing could change that, not even years in this drought- and famine-stricken land.

Yet she felt different sitting next to him—skinnier, frailer, more delicate than he had ever seen her. As different from the warrior he once knew as Somalia was from the cozy home she’d made for herself and their daughter in Boston after Gabrielle had gotten sick.

The silence stretched between them, fraught with everything they didn’t want to say. No, that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to say it—it was that he didn’t know how.

How did you apologize for all the mistakes you’d made, when some of them stretched back over a decade?

How did you tell the mother of your child that you still cared about her even though she’d cut you out of her life?

How did you reach past the cool reserve to tell her that you wanted another chance? That, this time, you weren’t going to disappear?

In the end, he didn’t have to say anything, because she broke first. “I’m not leaving with you, Simon.”

“Jack says he’s put you on sick leave. That you have to go.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a big world out there. There’s no reason our paths should have to cross again.”

“They’ve been intersecting for over twelve years now, Amanda. Do you really think it’s possible to keep that from happening again?”

She shrugged. “I don’t see why not. The world’s on fire—as usual. I’m sure there are a million places you could be right now, taking pictures. Reporting the news. America—with its stable government and abundant resources—isn’t exactly your speed.”

“Is that where you’re planning on going?” he demanded. “To America? Back home to Boston?”

She didn’t answer, but then he hadn’t really expected her to. At a complete loss as to what to say—or how to reach her—he dug into his backpack and came up with the last Twix bar. “You want half?” he asked as he broke open the wrapper. It was her favorite candy.

She glanced to see what he was offering her and stiffened, the blood draining from her face and her body turning to granite. When she spoke, it was in a rush and he had to struggle to understand. “I don’t want that!”

He pushed himself up, staring at her in bewilderment. “What’s wrong? I thought you liked these.” But even as the question formed in the air between them, the answer came to him and he wondered how he could have been so stupid. Again.

Twix had been Gabrielle’s favorite candy bar, too. She and Amanda had shared one at least once or twice a week—even when Amanda had been on assignment. She’d always carried a bunch of them with her, to help Gabrielle settle as they moved from one clinic—and country—to the next.

Shit, how could he have forgotten that?

He dropped the candy into his backpack. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

“Like that’s a surprise,” she said as she got to her feet. Her voice was level, but her hands were squeezed into fists so tight that her knuckles were white. “Go away, Simon. Go back to wherever you came from. I don’t need or want you to take care of me.”

“Yeah, well, have you looked in a mirror lately? Because you may not want to be taken care of, but you definitely need to be. And, no offense, but it looks like I’m the only candidate for the job.”

She whirled on him. “Why are you here? Why are you doing this to me? Can’t you see that I don’t want anything to do with you?”

He could see it—and it was killing him. “Look, I’m not suggesting we jump into bed together—”

“Glad to hear it, because that part of our lives is long over.”

He ignored her, and the pinprick of hurt her words caused. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t been expecting them, after all. “I just want to make sure you’re all right.”

“Why?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why do you suddenly feel responsible for me?” she demanded, her silver eyes steady on his. “You never have before.”

He started to deny it, to tell her that he’d always wanted to take care of her, but it would be a lie and they would both know it. One of the things that had originally attracted him to Amanda was how self-sufficient she was. How she could take care of herself and whatever came along. How she had never needed a man—never needed him—to lean on.

Diabolically, that same self-sufficiency was what had caused their relationship to end—just when he’d wanted most for it to continue. But then, he’d always had a gift for impossible relationships.

They stood there for long seconds, staring at each other as he tried to figure out what he was supposed to say. In the end, he did what he usually did—told the truth, even if it was guaranteed to get him into trouble. “Because for the first time since I met you, you need me.”

SIMON’S WORDS, DELIVERED IN the crisp British accent that had once sent shivers down her spine, worked their way through Amanda and she had to fight not to show her incredulity. There was so much wrong with what he’d said that she wasn’t sure which part to take exception to first—his assumption that she’d never needed him, or his idea that she suddenly did?

Could he really believe what he was saying? she wondered incredulously. Could he really think that in all the time they’d been together she’d never needed him before? That she’d done everything alone because she’d liked it that way?

She’d managed by herself because she’d never been able to count on him to do anything for her. For that, he would have had to be around for more than a few days at a time. He would have had to show an interest in something besides sex and that damn camera of his.

Part of her wanted to say something, to throw his words back in his face. But doing that would mean admitting that he’d had the power to hurt her, and she couldn’t see letting herself in for that. Not now, when simply standing here looking at him was taking more strength than she had. Besides, what they’d had—whatever it was— had been over long before Gabby had gotten sick. Her funeral had been the final death knell for a relationship that never should have happened.

“Simon—” She cleared her throat. Tried again. “I don’t need you to feel guilty about me. I’ll go home and get some rest. I’ll be fine in a few weeks.”

But even as she said the words, she knew he wouldn’t believe them. After eighteen years as a journalist, Simon’s bullshit meter was finely tuned.

Sure enough, one of his eyebrows shot up the way it always did when he was about to call her on a fib. “Really? You think rattling around in that house by yourself is what you need right now?”

“I don’t have the house anymore. It sold a few months after…” She cleared her throat again. “After.”

His eyes darkened until they were the color of the storm-tossed Atlantic. “I wish you hadn’t done that.”

Sometimes so did she. The house held so many memories of Gabby, good and bad. That was why she had sold it to begin with—she hadn’t been able to contemplate the idea of ever crossing the threshold, knowing that it was where her child had died.

But now, a year and a half later, she would give anything to walk through the halls and remember what it had felt like when her daughter had been alive. Even the pain that came with the memories would be better than this yawning emptiness that threatened to swallow her whole.

“Yeah, well, it seemed stupid to hold on to it, when I would only be in town every once in a blue moon.”

“Stupid?” he demanded. “That was your home. Our home.”

Anger sparked. “Just because I let you stay there when you passed through town didn’t make it your home, Simon. To be that, you need some kind of emotional investment in the place.”

“I had an emotional investment, Amanda. Not in the house, but in you. In Gabby.”

His words hit like blows and she trembled under the onslaught. But she caught herself, fought back. “The only thing you’ve ever been emotionally invested in is the story. You, of all people, should know that trying to rewrite history doesn’t work—not if there’s someone still around who remembers how things actually happened.”

He clenched his teeth so tightly that she worried he would crack a molar—or five. She waited for him to swallow the bait, to explode and walk away, as was his modus operandi. But sometime in the past year and a half, he must have learned self-control, because he didn’t defend himself. Didn’t say anything at all.

Instead, he looked out across the sand, his eyes focusing on some distant point, while his jaw worked furiously. Long seconds passed in hostile silence until, in a voice that sounded a lot more reasonable than he looked, he said, “Since you sold the house, where are you planning to stay?”

“Why?”

“Why do you think? I want to pull in a few favors, have your place firebombed.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” she said, remembering one of the reports Simon had done about Chechnya when she’d been there—a report that had ended with her clinic being attacked by the government. She’d barely gotten Gabby out in time, which was one of the main reasons she’d decided to end the romantic part of their relationship once and for all.

“That wasn’t my fault,” he answered with an amused resignation that hadn’t been there a few moments before.

“It never is.” She grinned at him for a second, before remembering that he was the enemy. No, she corrected herself firmly. Simon wasn’t the enemy. She refused to give him that much importance in her life.

He scooted closer, cupped her face in his palms. She forced herself not to flinch this time, when all she really wanted to do was flee. “I didn’t have any nefarious intentions in asking, Amanda. I just wanted to know where we were going to settle.”

His thumb stroked gently across her cheek, and despite everything—despite her anger at him, despite her resentment and her despair—she found herself melting into his touch. Simon felt safe, even though she knew he was anything but. And she was so tired that it didn’t matter.

Tired of fighting.

Tired of talking.

Tired of living.

But then he moved, shifting a little closer until his body brushed hers. It was all she needed to shove him away, once and for all.

“Jack might have contacted you a few days ago, but I just got my walking papers today. I haven’t exactly had time to decide where I want to end up.”

“Come with me,” he urged. “We can decide together.”

She shook her head, backed away some more—not even caring that it looked as if she was in full retreat. “I’m not getting on that plane with you.”

“Well, then, you and I have a problem.”

“Not from where I’m standing.” She gave him her most obnoxious smirk. “Get on your little puddle jumper and go back to whatever it was you were doing before Jack interrupted you.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not going to happen. I came a long way to find you, Amanda, and I’m not leaving here without you. Not this time. One way or another, you’re getting on that plane with me. Tonight.”