“Is this okay?”
I nodded. The night was cool, and I took in great gulps of air, which smelled wonderfully of the ocean. I could just make out the sound of the waves hitting the shore.
“Better?”
“Yes, much better. I guess after being locked up in that room—” I couldn’t finish.
He took my hand. We sat there like that for a while.
“I suppose I should tell you what happened,” I said.
“When you’re ready.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.” I looked over at him, trying to put myself in his place. Would he ever be ready to hear it?
Tentatively, I began telling him the story of my three days in the mountains. By the time I finished, he was sitting, head in hands. I knew he was upset, but still, when he spoke, the anger in his voice took me aback.
“Why the hell did you go out to that field that night?”
“I’ve asked myself that question many times, Frank.” I swallowed hard, feeling the regret rise within me like a river.
He got up and paced again, shoving his hands in his pockets, then restlessly taking them out again. “I just don’t understand it. You’re smart. But I swear to God, Irene, sometimes you do something so…” He faltered, having finally looked over at my face.
“Stupid,” I finished quietly.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It doesn’t do any good.”
“You’re right. O’Connor once said that some people would hold faster to their stupidity than to their lives, which was good, because it provided a way to get rid of idiots.”
“For Christsakes. That’s not what I was trying to say.”
I didn’t reply.
“It’s not your fault, Irene.” He stared down at his feet. “I should never have left you that night. I knew you were in danger, and I left you. I’m the idiot, and you’ve had to pay for it. If I had stayed with you—”
“That doesn’t do any good, either. Maybe if you had come with me they would have killed you.”
He was silent.
I thought of all the worry and self-recriminations my disappearance must have caused him, and at a time when he had plenty of other problems to contend with. I thought of how he had blamed himself for Mrs. Fremont’s death, for his father’s death. I had, quite obviously, put him through hell.
“Do you think,” I asked, my throat tightening, “that you could possibly come to forgive me?”
“Oh God, Irene. That’s crazy. Nothing to forgive. What happened is not your fault. None of it is your fault.”
I couldn’t speak. He came over to me then and said quietly, “Let me hold you.”
I laid my head on his shoulder. We sat like that for a long time.
“Want to try to go back to sleep?” he asked, seeing me grow drowsy.
I nodded. “Let me try to walk.”
It was slow going, and I was frustrated, but he simply said, “Be patient.”
“Frank?” I said, as we reached the bedroom.
“Hmm.”
“I haven’t seen myself yet.”
I saw his jaw tense, but he quietly walked over to the closet door. I knew there was a full-length mirror on the other side of that door.
“Wait,” I said, just as he started to open it. Deep breaths.
“You don’t have to do this now,” he said.
I shook my head. “Go ahead, I’m okay.”
He opened it and there I was. There
Frank moved up behind me, and gently encircled my waist. He looked over my left shoulder. “This isn’t how you look to me. And besides, this won’t last long. We’ve just got to let you heal.”
I’d like to report that I was a good little soldier, but the truth is, I burst into tears and started bawling like a baby. Frank rolled with it. He shut the closet door and took me back to bed, putting a pillow under my right hand to help keep it elevated.
“Sorry I’m such a pain in the ass,” I said, as he started undressing.
He moved over to me and sat down on the bed and said, “Don’t ever say that again. We’ll do whatever we have to do until you’re better.”
“I’m scared, Frank. Really scared.”
