Epilogue II
Thea
I open my eyes for the first time…
“I cannot believe this is real,” I said. “It’s a dream and I’m going to wake up at any second.”
“I can believe it,” Jimmy said, slipping his arms around my middle and kissing my neck. “You’re a genius. You deserve this.”
I held the arms holding me and stared around the darkened gallery. It took up an entire wing at the Richmond Museum of Modern Art and was devoted solely to my exhibit. It opened tonight with a gala party thrown by the curator. Art critics called my paintings, “an extraordinary visual journey through the life of the world’s second-worst case of amnesia.”
Recovered case of amnesia.
I’d been on Dr. Milton’s Laparin for the last ten years, and aside from one difficult side-effect, I’d stay on it for the rest of my life. It kept me in my life.
“Are you ready?” Jimmy asked. “They’re opening soon.”
“I want a few more seconds alone with you.”
“That works for me. You look stunning.” He bent to kiss my collarbone, across the scar there. “Was this dress expensive?”
“Why do you ask? Don’t you want your wife to look pretty on her big night?”
“Just determining how careful I have to be when I tear it off you later.”
I leaned into his mouth along my neck. “You always know exactly what to say to turn me into a puddle at your feet. And the tuxedo isn’t fair. Excessive, really.”
I’d hardly grown used to how handsome he was in the suits he wore to work meetings. But a tux?
Have mercy on my ovaries…
I grazed my fingers through his hair, admiring my confident, brilliant husband. Jim Whelan, SLP. He’d gotten his degree as a speech-language pathologist and now, at thirty-five years old, he ran his own practice in Roanoke. Every day, he helped children who’d been like him find their voice again.
My love for him deepened to something I hadn’t thought possible. My Jimmy, who never left my side during eighteen months of post-Hazarin amnesia. Through every hardship since… and every unimaginable joy.
“I’m so proud you’re my husband,” I said. “I’m the luckiest woman in the world.”
He gave a small, confused smile. “Are you okay? I mean, I know this is a lot,” he said, glancing around the space, “but for the last few days you’ve been a little…”
“Emotionally all over the place?”
He pretended to think. “Yes.”
I laughed. “I’m just happy. It’s not every day a gal gets everything she could ever want.”
He smiled and kissed me. “I know the feeling.”
“Jimmy…” Inhale. Exhale. “I’m—”
“Daddy!”
Our two-year-old son, Jack, ran full speed at us in his little suit. Jim bent to scoop him up. I watched my husband hold our son—setting him securely on his hip, his arm holding him protectively, and my heart was full. Overflowing.
“Hey, little man,” Jimmy said. “How’d you escape?”
“With my help, as usual. I tried to contain him, but he’s done with us,” Rita said. She slowed her steps for Alonzo, beside her with his cane he used for the arthritis in his knees. “He wanted Mommy and Daddy.”
“He’s a troublemaker, that Jack,” Alonzo said. “Just like his father.”
“There’s quite a crowd in the lobby,” Rita said. Ten years had added a few lines around her smile. “This is so exciting, Thea. It feels like a movie premiere.”
“You look lovely, my dear,” Alonzo said, kissing my cheek. “Your art is going to blow them away. Though some of us knew that a long time ago.”
“Mama,” Jack said, reaching for a lock of my hair.
“Doesn’t Mommy look pretty?” Jim asked.
Jack bobbed his head. “Preee.”
I took his little fingers and kissed them. “Love you, baby boy.”
Decreased fertility was Laparin’s lone side-effect, but a big one. It took two and a half years of IVF treatments to give us a viable embryo, which gave us Jack Whelan. The spitting image of his father—sturdy, strong nose, broad mouth, and dark hair. But his eyes were blue, like mine. Rita said he’d grow up to be a lady-killer, but I knew with a father like Jim, he’d grow up to be an honorable man who treated women with the same respect and consideration Jim showed me since the moment we met.
An assistant from the museum hurried over. “Ms. Whelan? They’re ready to open now and Ms. Takamura wants to introduce you to some people.”
Eme Takamura was my agent. She’d made it her life’s mission to find unknown artists with unique histories and give them a showcase for their talents. Jimmy and I took a trip to Carnegie-Melon to view the stunning glasswork of one of her former clients, a young man who’d passed away shortly after creating his masterpiece.
“He had something real to say about life,” Eme had told me. “I feel the same when I look at your paintings.”
That was all it took to know I could trust her with my work.
And now the night had arrived. I heaved a breath.
“Well?” I asked the small group. “I guess this is it. Give Mommy a kiss, Jack?”
Jack put his wet little mouth on my cheek. Jim leaned over and kissed me too.
“I love you,” I said, lingering in his kiss.
“I love you so much,” he said. “God, baby, so much.” He grinned. “I’ve been shot with cupid’s sparrow.”
I laughed and put my hand over my heart. During my eighteen months of amnesia, Jim had watched all nine seasons of The Office. Four times.
“Go,” he said. “They’re waiting for you to knock ’em dead.”
Eme and I gave a guided tour of the exhibit to a group of art aficionados, critics, dealers, and press. Around us, the general public perused at their leisure while attendants circulated with little trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres.
“This first room is called ‘Desert Spring,’” Eme said. “The artist ready to bloom into her craft.”
I leaned into Eme. “Bloom into my craft?”
“Just go with it,” she murmured back.
“Desert Spring” featured my work from art school—the pyramids and desert scenes, the Nile and the Sphinx.
Eme led us into the next area, called “Scream.” The drawings of Egypt now scratched out of word chains. My cries for help. There weren’t many—only those Jimmy and Dr. Chen had saved in the weeks before the first stem cell procedure.
I overheard murmurs of awe and muffled talk as the group craned their necks to read the chains of tiny, precise script. I cocked my head to read one.
Carried buried bury born torn mourn moan loan alone lone lonely lonely lonely
My skin broke out in gooseflesh. It’d been so lonely in the amnesia, but those days were harder to remember and fading away with every passing moment with Jimmy and Jack.
“Next, we have ‘Turning Point,’” Eme said.
Only one painting was displayed here: the ruined canvas of New York City. A bouquet of skyscrapers sprouting out of Central Park and black swaths of paint slapped across the blue sky.