Finding Mikayla Page 11

  “I’m right here, Mitch.” I climb into bed with him and he cuddles against me, spooning me in a way that feels so intimate yet not sensual. His body shakes as he silently sobs into my hair. I rub my hand over the arm that envelops me. We stay this way for hours.

  I don’t want to press him for more information, but my mind is screaming with selfish questions. What happened next? Are you in love with someone? Will you leave now? Is this goodbye? Yet, here he lies, spooning with me, after everything he remembers. This is good news. I relax into him and enjoy the comfort of his body pressed against mine.

  He suddenly sits us up in bed and reveals, “Shit, Mikayla . . . it doesn’t make sense. She died five months before the blackout.”

  “What doesn’t make sense?”

  “Her funeral. It’s the last thing I remember. Why can’t I remember anything after that?”

  And there it is. My brain is on a roller coaster ride. Just when I think he’s gotten his memory back and will not leave me, I find out there is still a large gap.

  “It’s okay, Mitch,” I reassure him. “This is how it works sometimes. Memories are triggered by something you see, hear or feel and they may not all come back at once. But they usually come back in chronological order. This is a good start. And I’m sure you’ll remember the rest in time.”

  “You’re probably right. It’s just so damn frustrating to have such a big chunk of my life that doesn’t belong to me anymore.” He looks around at the empty clinic. “I want to go back to my apartment now.” He gets out of bed and I immediately feel the loss of his body against mine. I don’t want him to leave. I want to be with him, comfort him, but I can’t bring myself to say the words. As if he has read my thoughts, he puts a hand to my cheek and rubs his thumb along my jaw. “Will you stay with me, Mikayla? Will you just lie next to me tonight if I promise not to pressure you?”

  I let out an audible sigh. “Of course I will.” Then we walk out of the now darkened clinic together.

  Much later, sometime in the middle of the night, I wake up in his arms. It is such a foreign feeling. I lie here and try to remember doing this with Jeff, but I can’t. One or both of us was usually working. Our sleep was fleeting and the odd times when we were in bed together, we needed to sleep, not cuddle. Even sex was quick and most often planned into our busy schedules.

  Being here, in bed with Mitch feels . . . peaceful . . . serene . . . right.

  I can feel that my body craves his. I know that my heart craves his. But my mind . . . sometimes I just want to tell it to shut the hell up.

  Chapter Twelve

  I sneak out of Mitch’s apartment early in the morning hoping he will be able to get some extra sleep. I told him last night that he should take a few days off. I know better than anyone how difficult losing a parent can be. It was hard watching him go through all those emotions yesterday and not relive the aftermath of the car crash that claimed my own parents when I was in college. But, yesterday was about him so I didn’t burden him with my own grief as well.

  When I get to the clinic, John is waiting outside the door. He smiles when I walk up. I inwardly roll my eyes and force my own smile when I say, “Good morning John, what brings you to the clinic?”

  “Do I need a reason to come see you, Dr. Kay? Or do you only go by Mikayla now?” he spits out.

  The way he says my name, like it’s a bad word or something, has me wondering just what his problem is. I’ve never given him any indication that I’m interested in him so he has no reason to be jealous if I show feelings for another man. “Kay would be fine, John,” I say, walking through the doors.

  “Well, actually, I do have a reason. I haven’t been feeling so hot for a few days. I think I might be coming down with something so I thought you should check me over.”

  “Okay. Why don’t you head on into exam room one and I’ll be there in a minute.”

  He nods at me and makes his way across the reception area to the exam room while I put my backpack away and get his chart. When I open the door to the exam room I’m surprised to see John sitting on the exam table—shirtless. “Oh, you didn’t have to remove your shirt, John. I can take your vitals with it on.”

  “That’s okay, Doc. I don’t mind. I thought it would make it easier for you this way.” He tells me his symptoms, which are all very vague and non-specific. I’m beginning to wonder if he really is sick, or if he’s simply using this as an opportunity to get my undivided attention.

  I walk around the exam table and put my stethoscope to his back, listening to his lungs. I take notice of the impeccable shape he’s in. I’m not dead, after all. His broad shoulders and bulging muscles lead down to a tight and narrow waistline. Did he remove his shirt merely so I could see him? I think I hear him chuckle, but with the stethoscope in my ears, I can’t be sure.

  I come around front and listen to his chest. Then I place my fingers on his wrist to take his pulse. While I’m counting in my head, he raises his other hand and proceeds to rub it along the outside of my arm in a way that makes me very uncomfortable.

  Before I can pull away, I hear someone behind me say, “Want to get your hands off the good doctor, Major?”

  John smirks and cranes his head around me. “Do you mind, Sergeant? We are in the middle of an examination and would like some privacy.” Then he raises his eyebrows at Mitch and says, “And if you are insubordinate again, I’ll take it up with the colonel.”

  “I don’t mind at all, sir,” Mitch says, walking over to get John’s chart from the table. “I’m sure the colonel would be interested to hear about your inappropriate handling of the doctor here.”

  “Pfft!” John blows out. “I was merely helping her keep her balance, what with her bad ankle and all.”

  “Sure you were,” Mitch snaps at him. “Mikayla, I’ll take over now and finish up with him. You can go.”

  Refusing to be dismissed by any man—even though I understand his reason—I say, “Mitch, it’s fine. I will finish the work-up.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” John bites at him, “why don’t you go clean bedpans or whatever else nurses do.”

  I see Mitch’s fists ball up as he ignores John’s comment and turns to me. “No, Mikayla, you won’t. I’ll be handling the major’s health issues from here on out.”

  Feeling there is way too much testosterone flying around this exam room, I say, “John, maybe you should go now. If you don’t feel better in a few days—”

  “You can come back and see me,” Mitch interrupts. Then he steps in between John and me. I begin to panic when John jumps off the table and puffs out his chest. Mitch doesn’t even flinch, however, and then John reaches around to grab his shirt and walks out of the clinic without ever putting it back on.

  I turn to Mitch. “That was really unnecessary.”

  “Oh, it was necessary,” he says. “I don’t trust that asshole. I’ve heard people around camp talk about his erratic behavior. Major or not, I’ll take him down if he touches you again.” Then he frowns. “Unless you want him to touch you.”

  “No, Mitch.” I roll my eyes. “I don’t want him to touch me. But I can handle it. You didn’t need to go all caveman on me.”

  “Caveman, huh?” he says. I can’t help but relax when his lips curve upwards up into a seductive smile.

  “So, are you doing okay today?” I ask. “You didn’t have to come in to work, you know.”

  “Yes, I did. I can’t just sit around and think about shit I can’t do anything about. I need to stay busy,” he says.

  I start to walk out of the exam room when he grabs my hand, pulling me back to him. Hard. “You were gone,” he says. “When I woke up, you were gone.” He stares into me, his blue eyes darkening. “I didn’t like it, Mikayla.”

  Oh! Hello again, Caveman. My insides tingle as he holds our bodies together.

  “Dr. Parker?” a woman’s voice calls out.

  I reluctantly peel myself away from Mitch and go into the reception area. I see Rylee Tyner and her y
oung son, Jack. Rylee nods at me, our signal that Jack is having trouble with his asthma and needs to be put on the nebulizer.

  “Mitch, can you start up the generator please, and get Jack’s super-power machine ready?”

  “I’m on it,” he says, smiling at the name we’ve dubbed the nebulizer to make it more fun for the little boy to sit through his half-hour treatment.

  We get Jack all situated with the nebulizer and his mom settles in to read him a book. It’s always the same routine with them.

  I, too, have a routine I follow when they are here and the generator is running. “I’ll be right back,” I tell Mitch and I slip away to the back room to take care of something.

  I lose my footing after I reach down to plug the charger in, and I end up sprawled out on the floor. Of course, Mitch picks this very second to come in the back. “You okay?” He comes over to give me a hand. “We need more albuterol out—”

  He stops talking when his eyes catch the lit up screen of my charging cell phone. He shakes his head like he can’t understand what he’s seeing, like he couldn’t possibly be looking at an actual working cell phone. I know, because it still affects me the same way when I see it myself.

  “What the hell, Mikayla?” He eyes me suspiciously. “How do you have a working cell phone?”

  “It doesn’t actually work,” I explain. “Well, not for calls and stuff.”

  “How did you get it?” he asks.

  “It’s a long story,” I tell him.

  “Oh, I see,” he huffs, watching me hide it under a hospital gown while it charges.

  “No, you don’t, but I really can’t—”

  “Who else knows about this?” he says, cutting me off.

  I shrug my shoulders knowing he won’t like my answer. “Nobody. Nobody else knows.”

  “Kind of selfish, don’t you think?” he asks. “Now, where’s the albuterol? I have a patient out there.”

  “But I don’t even u—”

  “Where is it, doctor?” he asks, looking at me with disappointment.

  “You have no right to judge me,” I sneer at him. I stomp over to the cabinet where I keep the medicine he is asking for and grab a small plastic bottle of Albuterol. Then I turn around and throw it at him. Hmmpf . . . he didn’t even give me a chance to explain. He automatically assumed the worst.

  Mitch is standoffish with me for the rest of the morning. Even when he stitches up Harley Robertson’s head and gets a pint of moonshine for his effort, he still doesn’t so much as smile at me. He simply sticks the bottle in a drawer mumbling something about “for later.”

  One o’clock rolls around and Jamie walks through the front door, breaking the awkward silence in the clinic. “Kay, I know you’ve worked a lot lately so I thought I’d give you the afternoon off.”

  What’s she up to? Jamie is never nice to me. As in, if I were on fire, the only fingers she would lift would be the ones roasting marshmallows.

  Mitch walks out of the back and her eyes light up, just like the light bulb over my head does. Of course. She wants to be alone with Mitch. She had to pick the one day he is mad at me.

  “Hi, Mitch.” She pastes on a smile and raises the tone of her voice by an entire octave. “I’ve given Kay the rest of the day off, so it looks like it’s just you and me all afternoon.”

  “Hey, Jamie.” Mitch looks over at me and I shrug my shoulders. He tells her, “I don’t know, I’m not sure I’m up for it, you know, with my mom dying and all.” He shoots me a private, devious grin. “I think I’m going to just head out, too.”

  My jaw drops. He goes over and pulls the pint of moonshine from the drawer and walks past me as he says, “It’s later.” Then he winks at me.

  I follow him out and shout over my shoulder, “Thanks, Jamie.” I don’t have to turn around and look to see her reaction. The sound of a bedpan hitting the floor alerts me to her tantrum.

  Catching up to him, I ask, “Did you really just use the memory of your dead mother to get out of being with Jamie?”

  “Yeah. I guess that was kind of morbid—but effective.” He holds up the bottle. “You in? We could head over to The Oasis for an early happy hour.”

  I nod and smile because, apparently, all thoughts of cell phone secrets have been forgotten.

  ~ ~ ~

  A pint of liquor may not be much to some, but I guarantee you sixteen ounces of Harley’s firewater could kill a horse. I get the feeling that Mitch is all too happy to have it in his possession after yesterday’s events.

  We each down a swallow, followed by several choice words that don’t usually come from my mouth. Mitch gives a few other patrons a drink as well. It doesn’t matter what time of day it is, residents gravitate to The Oasis which has become the heart of our little community. If you can’t find someone at home or work, odds are they’ll be here.

  “How about a game of pool?” Mitch nods his head in the direction of the community center.

  “I don’t know, you any good?” I ask him.

  “I’m decent, I guess,” he replies.

  “Only if you take a few more shots of that first.” I nod at the bottle on the table. “You know, to even the stakes.” What he doesn’t know is that sometimes we have Girls’ Night there and I’ve had considerable practice knocking those little balls around on the green felt.

  He raises the bottle to take a drink, but stops mid-motion. “Who is that guy over there?” he asks, pointing to a blonde-haired man sitting across the deck. “He’s been looking at me the entire time we’ve been sitting here.”

  “That’s Carson Withers. The brunette is his wife, Cassandra. I think they just got back to camp a few days ago. They left for a while to try to find her sister.” As I’m telling him this, Carson and Cassandra get up and make their way over to us.

  They stop in front of Mitch. “Mathews, ain’t it?” Carson asks, in a thick southern drawl.

  “No. Matheson. Mitch Matheson,” he says, extending his hand.

  Carson shakes it. “That’s right. Staff Sergeant Matheson, from Sacramento. How the hell are you?”

  His wife looks at Mitch and then at me and claps like a schoolgirl. “Oh, my God, is this her? Were you looking to find Mikayla Parker all along?”

  Mitch and I look at each other and frown. He shakes his head at them as his hand absentmindedly comes up to grab the material of his shirt on his chest.

  Cassandra says, “Aww, that’s too bad. It would have made a great story to tell.”

  Mitch says, “I’m sorry, I was in an accident and I don’t remember you, but you obviously know me. Would you mind joining us and filling me in on things?”

  After I explain to the Withers about his amnesia, Carson proceeds to tell Mitch everything he can remember about their meeting.

  “We was headed to Alabama to find Cassie’s sister. We left with a few bikes and a couple weeks’ worth of food and water. We was in the panhandle, just west of Tallahassee, when Cassie got a flat that we couldn’t fix for nothin.’ That’s when you stopped to help. Most other folks we saw didn’t bother to offer a hand, turnin’ away as if they didn’t even see us strugglin’ with her bike. But you offered us a ride, even back-trackin’ to help us find a sportin’ goods place to rummage up a bike tire.”

  Cassandra puts a gentle hand on Mitch’s arm and says, “We’ll be forever grateful for that. I’m not sure we would have made it if it weren’t for you.”

  “You’re welcome, ma’am,” Mitch says, staring at the couple intently as if they might hold all the answers to his existence.

  “Anyway,” Carson continues, “on the ride, we chatted some, but you was pretty tight-lipped so I cain’t tell you much. Said you was searchin’ for someone and that you would never stop lookin’ because you had a promise to keep.”

  “You never did say if it was a woman,” Cassandra adds. “But by the look on your face back then, we were sure it was.” Carson nods, agreeing with his wife.

  “You called me a Staff Sergeant?” Mitch ask
s.

  “Well, that’s what you told us your rank was,” Carson says.

  “Huh,” he muses, looking at me with raised eyebrows. I smile, knowing he’s pleasantly surprised to hold a rank higher than he thought. He looks back at Carson. “Can you tell me anything else?” Mitch asks.

  “Let’s see.” Carson thinks for a second. “Oh, yeah, you said you was a medical somethin’ or other and that you stopped to deliver a baby along the way. That’s how you got the truck you had. The lady’s husband was a mechanic who had retro-fitted some trucks with old re-built engines of some sort.”

  Mitch looks at me warily and then back to Carson. “Did I ever indicate to you that I was, um . . . married or anything?”

  “Nah, you didn’t say one way or ‘nother, but you sure was intent on findin’ whoever it was you was lookin’ for.”

  Mitch leans over and whispers to me, “Breathe, Mikayla.”

  I let out the breath I wasn’t aware I was holding. I’m not sure how to feel about this. Who was he looking for, and for the love of God, why couldn’t he have told these people more? He wasn’t going to stop looking until he found her. Well, maybe not her—but probably. That means he must have been in love with her. That means he has someone out there, just like I do.

  “Oh, but I remember we told you about Camp Brady. You said the person you was tryin’ to find was in central Florida so we gave you directions here. Figured it might be your best bet. I guess you made it. Sorry you didn’t find who you was lookin’ for though. Maybe there’s still hope, you know, if you remember stuff eventually.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Mitch says, looking sad to not have all the gaps filled in. “Hey, thanks.” Mitch shakes Carson’s hand and the Withers walk away. Mitch calls out after them, “Did you find her—your sister?” he asks Cassandra. She shakes her head with a weak smile and turns around to walk away.