Page 8 of Everything We Left Behind

That had been the ultimate mind-screw, seeing her sitting there; to touch the woman who left me baffled on the nights she came to me. Always the same dream—always my reaching for her, kissing her soft lips until she faded away, leaving my arms empty and soul wanting. Longing for something. Or, had that been that other part of me, the James me that longed for her?

Those dreams stirred a mixture of baser emotions. Joy, sadness, anger, and fear. All but the fear dissipated when I jolted awake, gasping for breath. Fear clung to me long after I woke in a sweat, damp sheets tangled around my calves. Some nights it took hours to fall back to sleep. Other nights I remained awake until the first light of dawn. I’d lace up my running shoes and hit the pavement to burn off that fear.

But it never completely went away. Now I knew. In all honesty, I’d been afraid since the day I woke in the hospital. I thought the memory loss triggered that fear, when perhaps it had been something else warning me that everything Imelda and the doctors had told me about my past had been manufactured. Some buried part of me understood it was all a lie.Iwas a lie.

I scrubbed my face with both hands, hating that nightmare. I hated that image of Aimee luring me toward her. She represented everything I couldn’t remember and everything I would lose. Damn her. Damn her to hell.

I roared, grabbing one of the older versions of her image, and slammed it against the table. The wood frame splintered. I smacked the canvas again. Again, and again, and again. God, I hated her. I hated that I dreamed about her. I hated that she came looking for me. She ruined my life.No!I slammed the canvas against the tabletop. Imelda ruined my life. Thomas screwed me over. They screwed up my sons’ chances of having a normal life.

Sweat broke out across my body and veins popped up on my arms as I did what I could to annihilate the painting. The wood frame fell apart and the canvas shredded. I lunged for another canvas.

“James!”

I whirled, teeth bared. Thomas stood in the doorway, suit pants wrinkled and white dress shirt unbuttoned at the neck, sleeves rolled up his forearms and jacket slung over his shoulder. His hair was uncombed and brown eyes wild. We had the same color eyes.

I sneered at him. He clutched the door frame, his chest heaving as though he’d been running. How long had he been there? How many times had he called my name?

No, he didn’t callmyname. I wasn’t James.

“Don’t, James. Don’t destroy your paintings.”

“That’s not my name,” I spat. “I’m nothim.” I didn’t want to be him.I amme. My body, my life.

“Fine. Carlos. I don’t care what name you go by. You’re still my brother.”

I jabbed a finger at him and ate the distance between us. “You’re no brother of mine.” I punched him in the jaw. His head snapped. He staggered back a few steps. White-hot pain radiated from my knuckles to my shoulder, rattling my arm.That hurt.I shook my hand.

Thomas gripped the door frame to right his balance. He pressed fingers to his chin, worked his jaw. “Damn. Guess I deserved that.”

He deserved much more where that came from. I wanted to hit him again, beat him untilhisnose shattered and cheekbone cracked. He needed to leave. He needed to leavenow. I pointed at him. “Get out.” I had two sons to worry about. If I came home drunk, bruised, and bloodied, Natalya would be fuming and Julian would ask questions. He was almost six, and he was smart. He’d know his dad got into a fight and he’d want to know why.

¡Mierda!How do I tell them about me?

I don’t. Not yet. They’re too young to understand. I could barely wrap my own damaged mind around it.

Flexing my fingers, I gave Thomas my back. I picked up the damaged canvas from the floor. It had split down the middle, right through the beautiful eyes that had bewitched me for months. I tossed the ruined painting on the table, wondering if Aimee would visit me again in my dreams now that I knew who she was. Would that other part of me still try to communicate while I slept? Because that was what I believed James was doing. There was something he wanted me to know.

Thomas came into the room, edging the table. He stopped on the opposite side. “We need to talk.”

“No, we don’t. Imelda and Aimee have told me enough.”

“They’ve only told you what they know.”

Which was more than I cared to understand. The more I knew about James, the greater the chance I’d snap out of the fugue.

“I don’t want to hear anything more, especially from you.”

“I don’t care what you want,” Thomas snapped.

“Obviously. That’s why I’m here,” I scoffed, pushing off the table and extending my arms to encompass the room, the town. Oaxaca. This whole fucking country.

“God dammit.” Thomas pounded the table. “Would you just listen?Please.Hear me out.”

“Why now? Why not nineteen months ago when I was flat on my back in a hospital bed? Why not when my face was swollen and shoulder busted and I was going out-of-my-mind crazy wondering who the hell I was?” My mind flashed back to the hospital, to a man standing outside my door. Aviator glasses, expensive suit, and face etched in grief. Anger sparked, flaring hot like a struck match. “You were there, in the hospital.”

Thomas shifted. His mouth parted briefly then flattened. He nodded.

“You gave Imelda the envelope with all my documents.”

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