Days and months passed, and so did that belief, disappearing like mist over the ocean with the rising sun. With the headaches, the blackout, and Natalya’s discussion with Dr. Feinstein, it became apparent that my mind was in the process of healing. The question was no longer if I surfaced from the fugue state, but when, and how, and where.
This unknown scared me.
I trusted Natalya to care for my sons. She’d keep them safe and raise them far away from the Donato family should, God forbid, James—rather, I—not want the responsibility.
I trusted Julian to watch over his brother. And I trusted him in that rebellious, preteen way of his, to not only help guide me back to fatherhood but make me want to be a father. It was an enormous responsibility, but Julian had a strong spirit. He’d also have his aunt’s help.
Since the day I woke in the medical clinic more than six years ago, I’d had little faith in anything, except my art, or anyone, except my sons and Natalya.
You’re the same man, Natalya had told me time and time again. Same body, same heart . . . same soul.
My headaches didn’t respond to the medication like they used to. As Carla observed, they’d grown in frequency and intensity. So had my nightmares. They kept my stomach in knots and my heart palpitating long into the night.
It was time for me to take a gamble. It was time to put a little faith in myself. It was also time to trust that the man I was supposed to be would do the right thing.
I opened the metal lockbox I’d purchased online. Inside, I put my wedding certificate, Raquel’s death certificate, and the boys’ birth certificates. I added CDs of medical films and reports, keys, passwords to my laptop, computers at the gallery, and Cloud accounts, and a few thumb drives containing other important documents, as well as my journal entries up to that point. I included anything I could think of that would help me understand who I was, how I arrived in Mexico, how I lived, and who I loved. The latter of those items being summed up with one of my favorite photos, Natalya arm in arm with the boys, Playa Zicatela as the backdrop.
Finally, I wrote a letter and addressed it to James. I placed the unsealed envelope on top with Aimee’s engagement ring. Then, with a heavy heart and a prayer to the all-knowing, I closed the lid, set the code—Julian’s birth date—and went in search of my eldest son.
I had to tell him a story. I had to advise him of what to do when I forgot that I’m his father. And I had to teach him how to teach me to be a father again.
Natalya was waiting for me out back. Facing the ocean, she sat on the half wall, her chin upturned toward the night sky. Stars glittered in the inky canvas, extra bright with the new moon. The breeze coming off the water lifted her hair, a wild mane I wanted to get lost in. I drank in the sight of her, absorbed every curve so that I’d remember the details later when I wrote about the day. She still wore her bikini after an afternoon under the Mexican sun. The turquoise strings peeked from under the white linen cover-up, twisting around her neck like a lover’s embrace.
I thought about our future, wondering how many more times I’d gaze upon her with my eyes. Would I see her again? She was flying home tomorrow to wrap up year-end projects before the holidays.
A rush of emotion coaxed me to go to her. Sensing my presence, she turned to me and smiled. Her fingers twined through mine. “How’d it go?”
Wind chased up my back and ruffled her hair. I caught tendrils clinging to her moist lips and tucked them behind her ear, letting my fingers linger along the fine line of her neck. My gaze trailed them as they dipped into the crevice of her collarbone then skimmed over the swell of her breasts.
“He’s overwhelmed,” I answered. Julian had cried, I’d cried. I’d stayed with him until he fell into a fitful sleep.
“He’ll have questions when it all sinks in.” She parted her knees and I moved into the space she created.
“I’ll answer anything he asks.” I lightly kissed her forehead and her fingers pressed into my hips, holding me to her. “I love you, Nat.”
“I love you, too, Carlos. I’ll always love you, every side of you.”
The backs of my eyes burned. My face tightened as I reined in emotions still raw from the long talk with Julian. Holding her hand to my chest, I whispered against her lips—“Same heart”—and kissed her thoroughly. In between those kisses, with our breathing growing heavy, I told her about the items I put in the lockbox.
“I wrote myself two letters. I put one in the box and the other I mailed to you.”
“Me?”
“Don’t open it. Save it for James.”
Her breath snagged and she tensed under my roaming hands. “What does it say?”
I kissed her neck, tasted the salt of her skin, and prayed everything would work out for the two of us and my sons in the end.
“It says,” I started, untying her bikini straps, “‘Dear James . . .’”
Then I told her what I’d written in the letter as I made love to her for what I hoped wouldn’t be the last time.
CHAPTER 31
JAMES
Present Day
June 30
Hanalei, Kauai, Hawaii
Thomas peers around the flight attendant leaning over James. “Nightmare? You were wigging out the other passengers.”
The flight attendant rests a hand on his shoulder. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
James straightens his rumpled shirt and sits up in his seat. “Yeah, that would be great.” He barely slept last night and as soon as the plane took off, he crashed.
Thomas shows James his empty Bloody Mary glass. “I’m getting a refill.” He walks to the front of the first-class cabin, leaving James to shake off his exhaustion and disorientation.
His hands are shaking, his pulse still pounding. That nightmare was a doozy. He hasn’t thought about his father and their meetings with the belt in years. Memories best forgotten, he thinks, searching for his phone in his carry-on. His fingers find the envelope Natalya gave him and he pulls that out instead.
His name is written on the front. Odd that Carlos’s handwriting is different from his, but he guesses he should expect that. They have different painting styles. The envelope’s edges are worn, as though it had been stored in a drawer with other items bumping into it. Or perhaps Natalya often held it, wondering whether she’d have the opportunity to give it to him.
He tears it open and unfolds the stationery. The emblem printed on top is from El estudio del pintor, the gallery he sold in Puerto Escondido. Neatly penned on the paper is exactly what Natalya told him it would be. A letter to him, from him. As he reads, his hands continue to shake and his heart goes out to the man who somehow knew that his time was almost up.
Dear James,
When you woke up from the fugue state and realized you lost more than years of memories, I’m sure you were angry at the world and despised your brothers. You longed for Aimee and probably hated me. I’m the guy who refused medical treatment. I didn’t want to remember who I used to be, because that meant I’d forget who I am. But I’ve slowly come to accept that the likelihood I’ll come out of the fugue and become you again is definitive. I have also come to understand that there is more than the self-loathing and shame you feel with your failure to protect Aimee from Phil at play here. There is something deeper in your past, for I see it often in my nightmares. It must be the explanation as to why the fugue has lasted as long as it has.
I urge you to come to terms with past mistakes, to forgive those who have wronged you, and find peace within yourself. You might discover that despite the losses, you’ve gained so much more: two incredible and talented sons, a woman who has remained at your side for years and loves you beyond anything, and the freedom of expression through your art. Perhaps you have already. And perhaps, you have also already found your way home. After all, you’re reading this letter.
C.
James slides the key his mother left him at the front desk into the slot. The lock unlatches and he opens the door to Claire’s suite.
Phil lounges on the couch, arms extended across the back. He wears a peach Hawaiian print shirt and white shorts with flip-flops. Always the tall, lean one of the three of them, prison has noticeably changed him. Deep lines etch a face that hasn’t regularly seen the sun. He carries more weight around the middle and less hair on his head. What he does have is streaked with a lifeless gray. He sips a yellow, frothy cocktail with a blue paper umbrella and grins when he sees them.