Tuesday, 27 March, 1870

     “I can’t believe that you mean that,” she said.

     “I can’t believe it either,” I said reluctantly.  “But you’ve given me no cause to feel otherwise, Michaela.”

     “I’ve ‘given you no cause to feel otherwise,’” she repeated quietly.  She lifted her chin and stared at me.  “Yes, it’s all about you, isn’t it Sully?  How *you* feel.  Your illness, your injury, your fight to live—your anguish and fear when you awakened and discovered that part of your memory was gone.  And your anger when you learned that I’d kept the truth from you about our relationship.

     “But that’s all right.  That’s as it should be.  You were the innocent victim.  You were the one who was critically ill and hurt—barely clinging to life.  My feelings were unimportant.  All that mattered was pulling you through your crisis, keeping you alive, bringing you back--regardless of how it affected me.  Regardless of how I had to sit by in torment, desperately afraid that I could lose you at any moment.

     “And you were within your right to be angry at me for not being truthful with you,” she went on.  “I know what I did seems inexplicable to you.  You told me once that people in love shouldn’t keep secrets.  Perhaps you’re right about that.  Perhaps I should have subscribed to that belief, regardless of the circumstances—or the consequences.  Even if learning this particular secret could hurt you far more than it could ever help you.

     “But tell me this,” she challenged.  “In the midst of all your self-righteous anger at me, did you never once—not once—think about what I might be going through?”

     I swallowed, stunned for own part, as I realized that she was right.  Wrapped up in my own anger and hurt—so resentful of the injury she’d done me that I couldn’t see past the rage . . . And even before the truth came out, when I was still recovering, lucky to be alive yet knowing I could have died if not for Michaela . . . not once had I considered what all this might have done to her.

     But she wasn’t finished.  Far from it.

     “I was the one who nursed you, Sully.  I was the one who somehow kept you alive, against the odds, when by all rights you should have died.  I was the one who sat by your bedside day and night, treating your fever, holding your hand and talking to you and begging you to come back to me.

     “And I was the one whose heart felt like it had been ripped into pieces when you finally awakened, and looked at me as if I were a stranger.  I was the one who had to pretend to be only your doctor, only a friend—when inside it was tearing me apart that I couldn’t tell you how much I loved you, how much I needed you.

     “I was the one who saw you through the migrim, Sully—the one who held you while you retched and placed cool compresses on your brow as you lay white and trembling, sweating with pain and nausea.  I was the one who wouldn’t leave you, even though you begged me to go away so I wouldn’t have to see you so weak and defenseless.”

     “But—you were a doctor . . .” I said haltingly, shame reducing my voice to a harsh whisper.

     “Yes, I was your doctor—and I was also a woman—with feelings, just like yours,” she said, her eyes dark and wounded.  “Feelings that could be hurt.  Still, I held those feelings inside as you flung hateful words at me—even though each one was like a knife stabbing at my heart.  Because I knew I had wronged you, I knew I had hurt you.  Never matter about the hurt you were causing me.”

     She stopped speaking, her face pale and her body shaking with the power of the pain pouring out of her.

     “I’m sorry,” I managed at last.  “I had no idea . . .”

     “I know,” she said.  “And it’s because I understood that you didn’t realize what you were doing to me—because I loved you so much!—that I could forgive the cruel words and the anger.  That I even felt I deserved them.

     “It’s just a pity that forgiveness doesn’t come so easily to you,” she finished at last.

     I stood silent, devastated at the agony I’d caused her—the magnitude of the pain so much greater than I could have ever dreamed.

     She reached up and slipped her fingers beneath the shining mantle of hair falling over her neck.  After a moment her hands reappeared, holding the two ends of the gold chain.  She cupped one hand as she allowed the engagement ring to slide off the chain into her palm.  Then she held it out to me.

     “You’ll be wanting this back,” she said.

     I stared at the ring, gleaming dully in the shadow cast by the fireplace, then looked up at her.  Instinctively I stepped back.

     “I didn’t say that,” I managed after a long, painful pause.

     “Yes you did,” she said.  “When you said you could never trust me again.  You’re right, Sully—without trust we have nothing.”

     “Michaela—“

     “Take it,” she insisted.

     “No . . . Michaela, I don’t want it back . . .”

     “Suit yourself,” she replied, and laid it on the mantle.  She looked at me once more, her eyes deep wells of pain and defeat.  Then she turned and went to the half-open door.  She walked out of the house, and—just maybe—out of my life.

* * * * * * * * * *
 

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

     “It’s truly quite remarkable, Sully,” Michaela commented as she took the bell of her stethoscope from his back and lowered the instrument to hang around her neck.  “To listen to your lungs now, one would never have known that just a short time ago you were suffering from pneumonia.”

     “I’m feelin’ a lot better,” Sully noted from where he sat on the edge of the bed.  The buttons of his long johns were unfastened to the waist, revealing a triangular view of his tanned chest with its fuzz of crisp, gold-brown hairs that gleamed in the morning light.  “It’s good to be able to get up and move around again without feelin’ light-headed.  I’m still pretty weak, though,” he added.  “When will that go away?”

     “The weakness is a natural consequence of your convalescence,” Michaela told him.  “It will pass as you continue to regain your strength.”  She averted her eyes slightly from the sight of his muscular torso.  “You can fasten your shirt again,” she added a bit awkwardly.

     “Oh—yeah,” Sully acknowledged, somewhat awkward in his turn, and began to do up the lower buttons.  For some reason they seemed to keep eluding his fingers, however, and it took him twice as long as it should have to complete the simple task.

     “So Dr. Mike—how much longer do you think I gotta stay here?” he asked after a few moments.

     “It’s hard to say,” Michaela ventured.  “As you yourself indicated, you still need to build up your strength.  And I’ll want to continue to monitor your head wound for a while longer—though it’s healing well enough now that I think as of today we can dispense with the bandage.  It won’t be long before I can remove the stitches.”

     “Sounds good,” Sully said.  He swiveled around so that his back was pressed against the pillows, then pulled up his legs and crossed them, reflexively pulling the sheet over his lap for modesty’s sake.

     Michaela finished straightening up from her ministrations, then came over to stand at his bedside.

     “I wondered if we might talk for a moment,” she said, her hands clasped in front of her.

     “Sure,” Sully said readily, his piercing blue eyes looking expectantly into hers.  “What did you want to talk about?”

     “Well, I’ve noticed that except for the curiosity you expressed about the boardinghouse, you seem rather disinterested to learn more about the time you’ve lost,” Michaela began.  “I would have thought that you’d have many questions—but you haven’t asked a single one.

    “Are you all right?” she inquired.  “That is, does it bother you to discuss your condition?”

    Sully looked slightly abashed.  “I’m fine,” he said quickly, then hesitated.  “It’s just—well, I’ve been a little scared to find out what I’ve missed,” he admitted.  “It’s an eerie feelin’—knowin’ that for three years life was goin’ on—I was here, I was part of it—but I just can’t remember.  If you were to tell me everythin’ I did durin’ that time, it would feel like you were tellin’ me a story about somebody else.”  He paused again.

     “And I guess I’ve been afraid to think about what this is gonna mean to my future, if I can’t get those memories back.” he confessed finally.

    “Your anxiety is natural, Sully,” Michaela told him.  “Such a large gap in one’s memory would be enough to make anyone feel uneasy and disoriented.  Everything must seem so uncertain to you.  It’s as if your amnesia is a mystery to be solved, but we have yet to find the right key.”

     “Do you think there is such a key?” Sully asked, looking at her soberly.

     “I’m certainly optimistic,” Michaela replied.  “I’ve consulted a specialist in maladies such as yours, and he’s given me a suggestion for a method we can try which might stimulate your memory.

     “However, if this is too much for you to consider right now—if you feel you’re not ready and would rather wait, we can have this discussion later, when you’ve had more time to adjust,” she added.

    “No, it’s all right,” he confirmed after a moment, resisting the powerful urge to put off his confrontation of the unknown.  “I gotta start facin’ things sooner or later—else I’m never gonna get back to what I was.”

    “Well that’s not necessarily true,” Michaela pointed out.  “Your memories could come back totally on their own, with no intervention of any kind.  Perhaps all at once, or a little at a time.  However, I don’t believe it would be amiss to try some methods that might help things along a bit.”

    “If you think it’s best, then I’m willin’,” Sully indicated.  His expression was sincere, but Michaela could detect the tension in his posture, the muscle ticking erratically in his jaw.  “Will it hurt?” he added after a moment, only half-joking.

    “Practically painless,” Michaela reassured him kindly.

    “So—what does this doctor say we should do?” Sully asked.

    “He suggests that you keep a journal,” Michaela replied.

    “Yeah—right,” Sully said.

    “I assure you, Sully, I’m quite serious,” Michaela said, raising her eyebrows reprovingly.

    “I’m sorry, Dr. Mike, but—you want me to write a *book*?” Sully said incredulously.

    “Not a ‘book,’ per se, Sully—a *journal.*  A diary, in which you record your thoughts, and your feelings.”

    “Dr. Mike, I ain’t no writer . . .” Sully resisted.

    “You needn’t be,” Michaela told him, warming to her subject.  “Not to write down your private thoughts.  Besides, you may surprise yourself,” she added.

    “Not very likely,” Sully replied.  “Maybe I never told you this, Dr. Mike, but I ain’ had much formal schoolin’.  I took off on my own when I was just a kid.”

    “I’m—aware of your background,” Michaela answered carefully.  “But a person need not be formally educated to be intelligent and sensitive, Sully—and you are certainly both of those things.  And it’s not as if I were going to act as a schoolteacher, reading and correcting what you write,” she sought to further reassure him.  “This would be a private record, for no one’s eyes but your own.”

    “Then what’s the point?” Sully persisted.  “I can’t remember nothin’—whether I’m talkin’ about it or writin’ it down.”

    “But that’s where you may be wrong,” Michaela asserted.  “Dr. Fletcher claims that writing down your thoughts, seeing them in black and white, can sometimes be a catalyst to retrieving elusive memories.  He doesn’t promise that it will happen all at once, or even that you will be consciously aware of your memories—at least initially.  But over time, something you write may lead to a memory coming back  Memories might even emerge in your dreams,” she added.

    “I still ain’t sure about this,” Sully confessed.

    “Sully, there’s no need to be embarrassed.  No one else will read what you write.  I promise you that.  However, if something comes to you as a result of keeping the journal, then you and I can talk about it.

    “You said you were willing to try,” she reminded him.

    “Yeah, I did,” Sully conceded.  “All right, Dr. Mike—I’ll take a crack at it, if that’s what you want—but I ain’t promisin’ much.”

    “Sully there’s no one you need to impress—no one you need to please, except yourself,” Michaela pointed out.  She excused herself and left the room momentarily.  A minute or two later she returned with a large pad of buff-colored paper anchored to a board with string, and a small handful of pencils.  She handed the writing implements to Sully.  “This should get you started,” she said.

    Sully looked down at the pad of paper in his lap, somewhat at a loss.  After a moment he glanced back up at her.

    “I ain’t sure where to begin,” he said.

    “Hm—let’s see,” Michaela ruminated.  Sully waited, hoping she could point him in the right direction.  Left to his own devices, he hadn’t a clue as to how to start.  He had no map for this new and intimidating journey.

    Several seconds elapsed, and then Michaela folded her hands together in front of her again.  “How about:  what is the last thing that you remember clearly?” she suggested.  She regarded Sully calmly, but he could see her eyes widen with a kind of anxious expectation, and of their own accord, her fingers twisted together restlessly.

    “Don’t try to answer me now,” she added quickly.  “Don’t even try to write anything down yet.  Just try to relax, and let yourself think about the question for a time.  Then, when it feels right, you can begin putting down your thoughts.”

    “All right,” Sully agreed, relieved that she wasn’t going to pressure him for results.  Yet everything about her manner suggested that she was indeed very anxious for him to produce a recollection.  He found himself wishing that he could give her what she wanted, but at the present moment, he hadn’t the faintest notion what that might be.

    “I’ll leave you to yourself in a moment,” Michaela added.  “However, if you don’t mind, there was one other matter I wanted to bring up with you.”

    “Tell me,” he said.

    “Well, the children—Matthew, Colleen and Brian—have been very anxious to visit you,” Michaela told him.  “I know you’ve always been fond of them, and they feel very close to you, as well.  Do you think you would feel up to seeing them?” she asked.

    “Yeah—I’d like that,” Sully answered, his face brightening.  “They’re good kids.  I always had a  soft spot for little Brian,”  he added, then grinned.  “I remember Colleen used to call him ‘Cheyenne crazy.’”

    Michaela smiled back.  “He still is,” she confirmed fondly.  “But Sully—before the children visit, I need to prepare you somewhat.  The children are older now, and you may be surprised—perhaps even a little shocked—at the change in their appearance.  In fact, the term ‘children’ is no longer truly accurate.  Matthew has grown into quite the young man—in fact, he’s even engaged to be married, to a young immigrant girl named Ingrid.  Colleen is a young lady of fifteen now—and even Brian isn’t very little anymore.”

    Sully nodded.  “Kids change so fast . . .” he murmured.

    Michaela looked at him sympathetically.  “Indeed they do,” she agreed.  “Even I can’t believe how much they’ve changed since I first came here.

    “I hope I didn’t distress you.  I just didn’t want you to feel too startled or uncomfortable,” she added.

    “I’m obliged—but I think I can handle it,” Sully said.

    “Good,” she replied.  “I know the children will be delighted.  I’ll bring them by this afternoon.  But for now, I’ll give you your solitude,” she said.

    “All right,” he agreed.  He watched her move to the door, then spoke again.

    “Dr. Mike—I want to thank you—for everythin’ you’re tryin’ to do,” he said shyly.  “I’m grateful.”

    “There’s no need to thank me, Sully,” she said, a slight wistfulness in her eyes.  “I want you to get well as much as you do, and I’ll do everything in my power to help you.”

    “You’re—an exceptional woman, Dr. Mike,” he said.

    “And you’re quite an exceptional man, Sully,” she responded softly, then stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her.

* * * * * * * * * *

     “Sorry, Dr. Mike,” Matthew said as the four of them filed dispiritedly into the examination room.  “Guess that didn’t go so well.”

     “It’s all right, Matthew,” Michaela replied, trying to sound cheerful, even though she was as disappointed as any of them over their less than successful visit with Sully.  “You were Sully’s first visitors since he’s awakened—things were bound to be a bit awkward under the circumstances—for Sully as well as for all of you.”

     “It was just—so hard to know what to say,” Matthew berated himself.  “I kept thinkin’—what if I say the wrong thing?  I didn’t want to make Sully feel bad, but I’m afraid I did,” he added regretfully.

    "You ain’t the only one,” Colleen chimed in.  “It was the same for me.  I was nervous, and I’m sure Sully could tell.  I had to keep stoppin’ to think every time I went to open my mouth.”

     Brian was nodding in agreement with his brother and sister.

     “None of you have anything to apologize for,” Michaela told them.  “The fault was mine.  I was so concerned with preparing Sully for the changes in all of you, that I failed to consider that I should prepare the three of you for the change in Sully.  But at least the ice has been broken now,” she went on more optimistically.  “And remember that all along I’ll be working with Sully—helping him to fill in some of the missing pieces of his memory.  Future encounters will be better—there shouldn’t be as much awkwardness between you.”

     “What about you, Ma?” Colleen asked, remembering their conversation from the day before.  “How are you holdin’ up’?”

     “I’m all right, Colleen,” Michaela said.  “I’m going to focus on the positive, and try not to allow myself to become discouraged.  We have no guarantees, but there’s every reason to hope that keeping a journal—a record of his thoughts—may help Sully to remember.  And we’ll all help him as well.”

     “You’re so brave . . .” Colleen said softly.

     Michaela reached out and gently stroked a lock of her daughter’s hair.  “Not brave, Colleen.  But I need to have hope.  And if ‘wishing makes it so . . .’”  She smiled.

     “Then I’m gonna start wishin’ right now,” Brian announced.  Michaela looked fondly at her son.  “And I’ll be wishing right along with you,” she said.

     "What is it, Ma?” Colleen asked, noting her mother’s preoccupied expression.

     Michaela’s eyes cleared and she gave Colleen her attention.  “I suppose the time has come to explain to our friends and neighbors about what’s happened to Sully,” she replied to her daughter’s question.  “No doubt they’re becoming curious as why I’ve isolated Sully from them for so long.  I need to help them understand his condition, as well as to caution them about not being too forthright with Sully too soon.”  She turned to her older son.  “Matthew, could you do me a favor?” she asked.

     “Sure, anythin’,” her son said.

     “Would you go to the Reverend, and ask him if I can have the use of the church this evening?”