“Thea,” I whispered. “Listen to me. Are you listening?”
“Yes,” she said in a faint voice. Sleep was taking her and when she woke up, the amnesia would too.
“I promise,” I said, my voice cracking. “I promise.”
She pulled away and her smile broke my goddamn heart. “You do?” Then her smile crumpled to confusion. “I wrote… something. Did I? I can’t remember…?”
“It’s okay, baby. You don’t have to.”
Her face relaxed into a smile of relief. She kissed me and I savored the taste of her tears and her soft lips before she laid her head down again. “I love you. Jimmy with the kind eyes.”
I held her close, struggled to keep my sobs from shuddering through me.
“I love you, Thea,” I said. “Sleep now. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? And every day after. I promise.”
I blinked awake and the hospital room materialized around me. Thea lay in my arms. Morning light slanted over the bed.
Slowly she stirred and woke. Studied me for a second. Then her face lit up with recognition, heartbreakingly beautiful. “Jimmy.”
“Hi, baby,” I said, holding back the tears.
The words were barely out of my mouth when an absence seizure paralyzed her. She trembled a few moments, then blinked back into focus.
I saw her.
Beneath the confusion, beneath the amnesia, down in the clear blue depths of her eyes, I saw my Thea.
Her head cocked to the side and her smile faltered.
“How long has it been?”
Epilogue I
Jim
Open mic night was crowded at Haven, as if all of Boones Mill had crammed into the small tavern that Saturday.
Maybe they have, I thought from behind the bar. The town’s small enough.
Or maybe it was to keep warm. Winter was brutally cold this year, and weathermen said Christmas—a few weeks away—was going to be white.
I poured beers for a couple of regulars, Stan and Kevin. Two middle-aged guys who wore baseball caps and T-shirts no matter what the weather.
“Big night tonight,” Kevin said. “You gonna play, Jim?”
“He sure as hell is,” Laura said, sidling up to the bar with a tray full of empties. “Gotta give ’em what they want, right, Jim?” She gave me a wink.
I smiled. “We’ll see.”
“Oh, we will,” Laura said. “Guess who’s in charge of the playlist tonight?” She jerked two thumbs at herself. “This gal right here. Now I need two shots of Fireball, two Buds and a glass of water. The water’s for you. Get your pipes ready.”
The guys chuckled as Laura vanished into the crowd.
“Looks like you’re playing,” Stan said.
“Guess so,” I said. “And here I thought this was a bartending gig.”
It started out that way. I needed to work nights, and Haven’s owner had just lost his best bartender and was desperate. I worked my way up from the shit gigs on Sunday thru Wednesday, to the more lucrative shifts on Thursday through Saturday. It was Laura who caught me singing Pearl Jam’s “Black” while taking inventory one day. Despite the poor first impression I’d made on her all those months ago, she demanded I play at the next open mic.
And I’d been playing most open mic nights since.
Laura took the stage. “Heya! How y’all doing tonight? You ready for some music?”
A roll of enthusiastic applause and cheers.
“We’re going to start things off with our own secret weapon, Haven’s own, Jim Whelan!”
The crowd cheered louder, and Laura shot me an I-told-you-so look from across the room.
“You’re up, Jimbo,” Kevin said and leaned into Stan. “He’s going to quit slinging booze to be a YouTube star, just wait.”
“I’m racking up too many student loans to quit,” I said. “I’ll be working here until I’m sixty.”
“Yeah, right.” Stan tossed me a cocktail napkin. “Can I have your autograph?”
“Sign his boobs.” Kevin laughed.
I chuckled and wiped my hands on a rag. I came from behind the bar to more applause. Laura had my guitar ready.
“Knock ’em dead,” she said and left me alone on the stage.
“Hey, all, thanks for coming out,” I said, taking a seat and adjusting the mic stand. “I’m going to play one song—”
Boos and catcalls.
“You want me to sing, or do you want to drink?”
They laughed and one guy called out, “When you put it that way…”
I smiled and settled into the guitar, letting my fingers feel the strings. The song I’d chosen wasn’t easy.
“This one is from Mumford and Sons,” I said. “It’s called ‘Beloved.’”
The crowd quieted down, and the room became still. The spotlight over me created a curtain of light. I was alone with Thea. Just her and me. I strummed the guitar and began to play.
For three and a half minutes, I sang to her, asked her to remember I was with her. And she was loved. Always.
The last note wavered and the crowd stayed still and hushed.
I leaned into the mic a final time. “That was for Thea.”
Every person in that room lifted their glass or bottle. “For Thea!”
They all knew our story. When people spoke to me now, I talked back. Behind the bar, at the art supply store or just passing on the street. I was a voice in the world, not a mute observer watching from afar.
The crowd erupted into huge applause as I left the stage.
“Brilliant, Jim,” Laura said in my ear. “Just beautiful.”
I un-looped the guitar strap. “I’m glad because I’m nervous as hell.”
“You? Nervous?”
“Not for this,” I said and gestured to the crowd.
Laura’s eyes widened. “Oh shit, is tomorrow the big day?”
“Day after.”
“I knew it was coming up. So exciting and just in time for Christmas.” She gave me a short hug. “I’m so happy for you, Jim. We all are.”
“Thanks, Laura,” I said. “It helps. It helps a lot.”
Having someone—a lot of someones—on our side, even if Thea never knew it, had gotten me through many long days. But then again, if she’d taught me anything, it was you didn’t have to know something was real in order to feel it.
The following morning, I drove over to Roanoke Speech, Language, and Learning Services. Jason Taylor was already in the therapy room, waiting for me. This was Sunday, so the room was empty. But the tenacious Jason wanted to put in as many hours of therapy as possible, and I needed as many practical hours as I could get for my clinical requirements at Roanoke University. So we made our own schedule.
“Where’s your mom?” I said, shaking out of my coat and hat and taking a seat across from him.
Jason grabbed his iPad off the table and typed, Getting coffee
“Cool. You ready to start?”
He shook his head and looked away. His blond hair was neatly brushed, and he wore nice pants and a shirt. As if he’d come back from church. Jason was always neat and put together. He’d once told me it was so that no one could find some other reason to make fun of him.