Tuesday, 27 March, 1870

Evening

     I couldn’t go back to the clinic.  Truth is, I was afraid to even show my face in town for fear that we’d run into each other.  But if I was going to go back to camping out in the woods, I needed supplies.

     I had no idea what remained of the lean-to where I’d spent so many nights lying under the stars.  I realized I must have only been away from it for a matter of weeks, instead of the three years that it felt like to me.  But it was a fragile structure, vulnerable to the whims of wind, weather, and animals foraging for food.  And there was that snow storm awhile back that Michaela had mentioned . . .

    A picture of her face, and the look in her eyes when I’d last seen her, arose in my mind’s eye, making my gut twist with loss and shame.  I thought of the harsh words we’d said to one another, and it was agony.  It hurt so much—more than the headache I’d had when I woke up—more even than the brutal pain of the migrim that I’d suffered.  It dawned on me that apart from losing Abagail and our baby, nothing had ever caused me as much desolation as the knowledge that things had come to an end between Michaela and me.  Could it have only been this morning that I’d gone so innocently to the homestead, meaning to apologize to her for invading her privacy?  It seemed like a lifetime ago.  Yet in a few short hours, everything had changed.  I could hardly believe it, let alone accept it.  For the first time, my thoughts about the future had nothing to do with my amnesia.  All I could think about was how I was going to go on without her in my life.

    But brooding helplessly over losing Michaela was doing me no good.  There would be plenty of time in the long, empty weeks and months ahead for me to ruminate on what I’d lost—before I’d even truly known what I had.  Before I’d had the chance to remember what it felt like to love again—and be loved in return.  For now, I needed to somehow try to push her out of my mind, and focus on the business at hand.

    There was no guarantee that the lean-to would be livable when I got back—fact is, I anticipated that I’d probably have to rebuild it.  I also had no idea whether my bedroll would still be there, or my blankets—as well as the skins I’d tanned, and my few clothes and cooking utensils.  Best to replace what I could.  I needed some staples, too—like coffee, sugar, and some dried meat to tide me over till I could go hunting and set out my traps.

    There was only one place I could go to get what I needed, but visiting the general store posed a problem.  I had no money.  Fact is, I was flat broke.  I’d never bought anything on credit—I didn’t like owing anybody, and Loren hadn’t been about to let me charge anything, back when we’d been enemies—but now I realized that if he was willing to sell to me, I’d have to ask him to trust me for the money till I could get some work to earn enough to pay him back.  *If* he’d be willing to extend me credit at all—I still had trouble believing that we’d become friendly, or that he trusted me.

    I had another problem too.  My tomahawk and my knife were still somewhere in the clinic.  Michaela hadn’t gotten around to giving them back to me, and I didn’t think I could bring myself to go ask her for them.  Maybe I could get hold of Matthew, and ask him to bring my weapons to me.  Or maybe it would just be simpler to go to Robert E. and ask him to make me new ones.  Of course then I’d owe him too—but chances were good that he might have some extra work at the livery for me so I could work off my debt to him.

    The day wasn’t getting any younger—I needed to head to town, if I was going to have any hope of procuring my supplies and getting back out to the woods in time to work on the lean-to before sundown.  Yet I lingered in the new homestead, wishing with all my heart that I could remember the joy of anticipation I must have felt, as I carefully crafted this beautiful new home to share with my future wife—and with our children.  I’d come here a stranger, never dreaming that it had been my hands that had created this place—and then I’d been shocked to the core, not only to discover that I had been the one to build it—but why.  Yet despite all the staggering revelations I’d had this day, I had quickly gone from shock at the truth, to a powerful feeling of need and possessiveness—not just for this house, but for everything it represented.  I could have had it all—everything I’d ever wanted:  a real family; with a beautiful, extraordinary woman to love and who loved me, wonderful children, and perhaps even a baby of our own someday.  But I had allowed my anger to cause it all to slip through my fingers.  Self-loathing washed through me at my selfishness and stupidity.

    What did it really matter that she hadn’t told me the truth about us sooner?  She’d claimed she had good reasons for what she’d done, and I should have been willing to accept that.  Hadn’t she proved her devotion to me over and over, even if she hadn’t been able to say the words?  The way she’d taken such loving care of me, watching over me day and night, using up every last drop of her own strength and energy for my sake.  Her gentleness and compassion as she’d told me of the deaths of my friends, and her kindness as she tried to comfort me in my grief.  Even the way she’d kept me from learning too much about events that had transpired during my “missing” time.  I understood now that she hadn’t been trying to lie to me, or treat me like child.  She’d been trying to take it ever so easy—to protect me—the best and only way she knew how.  But had I tried to see things from her perspective?  Had I shown even one ounce of sensitivity for her suffering?  No.  Instead, I’d lashed out at her, trying to hurt her—accusing her of all sorts of cruel and hateful things.  I’d thought of her as selfish, when in fact it was me who’d been the selfish one—more so than she ever could have been.

    I took down the ring from the mantle, holding it in my palm as I stared at it in anguish.  Suddenly a tear fell onto the stone, the shivering droplet magnifying the brilliance of the diamond as it trembled in my hand—and I realized I was crying.

    I fell down on my knees as if in penance, closing my hand over the ring and pressing it to my chest.  “I’m sorry Michaela,” I said, my voice harsh and broken in the emptiness.  “Oh God, I’m so sorry . . .”

* * * * * * * * * *
 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

     “The floor is yours, Dr. Mike,” said the Reverend from his place at the lectern.  Michaela left her seat in one of the front pews of the church, and ascended the altar, taking Reverend Johnson’s place as he moved aside to make room for her.  The minister stepped down from the dais and took her empty seat.  He looked up at her expectantly, his expression matching those of the other friends and neighbors who had gathered here this evening at her request.  Clearly everyone present was curious as to why she’d called this unexpected meeting—the only exceptions being her children, and Dorothy—the sole friend she had taken into her confidence regarding Sully’s condition.

     Michaela rested her folded hands on the pulpit, letting her eyes travel over the familiar faces of her fellow townspeople.  It touched her that they had been willing to come together on such short notice, both for Sully’s sake and her own.  She realized that not everyone assembled here had such altruistic motives—like Hank, for instance.  His expression as he caught her eye was more prurient than sympathetic.  However she knew that if she were to have any success in treating Sully—not to mention protecting him—the people in town who cared for him most or knew him best, needed to understand his condition and the necessity of guarding their speech around him—at least for a while.

     “I want to thank you all for taking time out of your evening to come here,” she began.  “I won’t keep you long.  I simply wanted to tell you a bit about Sully’s condition—and enlist your aid in helping me with his recovery.”  Her remark had the desired effect—everyone was watching her avidly.

     “First I wanted to say that Sully will be fine—his physical recovery is progressing very well,” she continued.  She noted the happy and relieved expressions on the faces of their closest friends—Dorothy, Robert E. and Grace, Horace and Myra, the Reverend, and—gratifyingly—Loren.  “However,” she went on a bit more reluctantly after a moment, “there is a problem—an obstacle—to Sully becoming completely well, that I need to explain to you.  It—has to do with his mind.”  She hesitated.

     “What are ya tryin’ to say Michaela—that he’s lost all his marbles?” Hank spoke up, flashing her one of his sardonic grins.

     “Hank!” Dorothy exclaimed sharply.

     Jake leaned toward Hank.  “Seems to me he never had a full load to start with,” he quipped, sotto voce.  Hank grinned.

     “You’re both disgraceful,” Dorothy rebuked them.  She glanced toward Michaela, shrugging slightly and raising her eyebrows as if to say, what can you expect?  “You should be ashamed,” she added to the barkeep and the barber.

     “Dorothy’s right,” Loren said unexpectedly.

     “What’s wrong, old man?” Hank inquired.  “Goin’ soft?”

     “It just ain’t right,” Loren maintained stubbornly.  “Sully and me—we ain’t always seen eye to eye, but he’s a good man.  Gonna be a good husband for Dr. Mike—a good Pa for Brian, here, too.  ‘Cordin’ to Dr. Mike, he come close to dyin’ a few days ago.  I just think—there ain’t no call to be makin’ fun of him.”  He folded his arms across his chest, his face set.

     Dorothy reached over and patted his shoulder.  “Thank you, Loren,” she said.   “We’re listenin’, Michaela,” she added clearly, swiveling around to stare hard at Hank and Jake, then turning back to her friend.  “ALL of us. Go on with what you were sayin’.”

     “Thank you, Dorothy, Loren,” Michaela acknowledged gratefully, then looked out toward the assembled group.

     “Sully has not—‘lost all his marbles’—as you so colorfully put it, Hank,” she remarked drily.  The saloon keeper ducked his eyes, but couldn’t quite wipe the smug little smile from his face.

     “So what’s ailin’ Sully, Dr. Mike?” Robert E. asked.

     “I’m afraid that Sully is suffering from amnesia,” Michaela answered.

     “Amnesia?” Horace repeated.  “You mean—Sully don’t know who he is?”

     Michaela smiled kindly.  “No, Horace, it’s not as bad as that.  Though you’re right—some patients with amnesia do forget their identities.  Fortunately, however, that’s not the case with Sully.  His memory loss has to do with time.   He knows who he is, where he is, and he remembers everyone he knew prior to three years ago.  But apparently that’s where his memories stop.  He has no recollection of the past three years—not the events that occurred, or—anyone he may have met during that time.”

     “What caused it, Dr. Mike?” Grace asked.

     “I’m not precisely sure,” Michaela admitted.  “But I believe it may have been a combination of factors—the head injury he received, as well as his sorrow over the massacre at Washita, which he took very hard—“  Her glance went reflexively to Loren.  His eyes met hers, and they shared a moment of silent understanding.  Then Loren looked down, his brow creased in sympathy.

    “I’m doing my best to discover the cause of  Sully’s trauma, and help him work through it so that he can retrieve his memories,” Michaela went on.  “But it’s a delicate process, which takes time.  Sully has had a great shock, and I believe that if he’s told too quickly of the things he’s forgotten—especially the things that are painful—that the shock to his mind could be even worse.

     “That’s why I’m asking for your help,” she said.  “Slowly and surely, I intend to help Sully fill in the missing pieces of his past—but for a time, I need all of you to be careful of what you say when you’re around him.  I know it will be awkward, but if you could just refrain from bringing up recent events, like Washita . . . “  She was silent for a long moment.  “I also need all of you to refrain from mentioning  Sully’s and my courtship, and engagement,” she added finally.

     “Why would you need to—“ Grace started to say, and then stopped, her eyes widening.  “Dr. Mike—you came to town durin’ the last three years . . .  Are ya sayin’—Sully don’t remember *you*?”

     “I’m afraid that’s true, Grace,” Michaela confirmed quietly.

     “Oh Dr. Mike—I’m sorry,” Grace said softly.

     “What about . . . your weddin’, Dr. Mike?” Myra spoke up shyly, her eyes compassionate.

     Michaela tried to smile.  “I’m not quite sure, Myra.  I suppose we’ll have to wait and see.  I’m optimistic that Sully will recover his memory eventually, but there’s no way to tell how long it will take.  A wedding—at least a wedding when we originally planned it—might be out of the question.”

     “Odds just went *way* up in the marriage sweepstakes, folks,” Hank announced.  “An’ here I thought all he’d do is back out.”

     “Talk about cold feet,” Jake said jeeringly.  “Some fellas’ll do anthin’ to get out of tyin’ the knot.”

    “I think you’re both terrible for gettin’ pleasure out of Michaela’s misery,” Dorothy chided them.

    “Just bein’ realistic, Dorothy,” Hank said reasonably.  “Sully ain’t never liked bein’ tied down—no reason to think he’s gonna change now.”

    “He’s gonna change because he loves Michaela!” Dorothy insisted.

    But Hank was shaking his head.  “Mark my words,” he said.  “The writin’s on the wall.”

    “Don’t pay them any mind, Michaela,” Dorothy said to her friend hastily.   “They don’t know what they’re talkin’ about.”

    “It’s all right, Dorothy,” Michaela said quietly, trying not to acknowledge to herself how deeply she feared that Hank might be right.  “Hank and Jake are free to think what they please.  All I ask is that they—and all the rest of you—help me to protect Sully until he becomes more adjusted to his circumstances—or until his memories start to return.”

    “You can count on all of us, Dr. Mike,” the Reverend said firmly, rising to his feet and gazing meaningfully at the assemblage.  “You take the lead, and we’ll follow.”  He took Michaela’s hand in his.  “And I’ll be praying for both you and Sully—that you can make him well, and that your wedding will go off, just as you planned.”

    “Thank you, Reverend,” she said softly, then turned and faced the others.  “Thank you all,” she added.  “Sully and I are very lucky to have you as our friends.”

    “You’ll get Sully through this, Dr. Mike,” Robert E. spoke up confidently.

    “And he’s gonna keep right on lovin’ you,” Dorothy whispered to her.

    Michaela didn’t dare to speculate on Dorothy’s prediction.  All she knew for sure was that she would never stop loving Sully—and that she would never give up on him.

* * * * * * * * * *

     Sully reread the lines he’d written; then, with a look of disgust, he ripped the sheet from the pad and crumpled it, tossing it to the floor.  It joined a small but steadily increasing pile of similarly crumpled and rejected pages.

     With a groan of impatience, he put the pad aside and got up from the bed.  He moved restlessly over to the window, and looked out at the night sky.

    He was no good at this.  The harder he tried to pull a clear memory from the recesses of his mind, the more his mind seemed to fight him.  Harder still was trying to write it down.  No matter what he tried to say or how he tried to say it, it sounded like drivel.  He knew that no one would read his words, yet he still felt a compulsion to do the best job he could, to please Dr. Mike.  She seemed to be counting so much on this working.

    But every time he attempted to isolate the last hazy memories that lingered in his mind, he seemed to come up against a blank wall.  More and more, he doubted that writing in a journal would provide the key to opening a door in that wall and seeing what was on the other side.  He found himself futilely wondering yet again what had caused him to block out so much of his past.  He wanted to believe that it was simply the result of being shot, and perhaps his illness as well—but something deep inside made him suspect that the cause wasn’t that simple—or that obvious.

    He returned to the bed and looked down at the pad.  It’s blank pages silently rebuked him.  What was he going to do?  Sooner or later Dr. Mike would ask if he was making progress—how could he admit to her that he hadn’t even succeeded in putting one word down on paper?

    Maybe he was trying too hard, he thought suddenly.  Maybe it was like having a word on the tip of your tongue, but the harder you tried to remember it, the more it eluded you.  However, if you put your mind on something else, more often than not, the word would come to you when you least expected it.

    Maybe that’s what he needed to do here.  Maybe instead of trying to begin with what he remembered last, he should go back farther—to when his memories were whole and clear.  Maybe by starting at the beginning, and working his way forward, the things he’d forgotten would start to come back to him.

    Filled with more of a sense of purpose, he curled up on the bed and took the pad back into his lap.  He picked up a pencil, letting it hover over the page as he thought for a few seconds.  Then, lowering the pencil to the blank sheet before him, he began to write.

    “I feel kind of peculiar, doing this.  I never been much of a one for writing—or reading either, for that matter.  Too busy just living and surviving, I guess . . .”