Rogue Wave by Susan Dunlap Read Free Book Online Page A

with a frontal syndrome …”
    Maureen was repeating herself, Kiernan thought as she interrupted. “… And the frontal lobes deal with the sense of purpose.” She could see why Garrett Brant’s paintings showed less life with each effort. With no commitment to hold him, he would become easily distracted; his conviction in the uniqueness of his vision would fade as the range between high and low disappeared.
    “His hands start to shake by evening. Once in a while we shoot at tin cans. It’s something to do.” She shrugged apologetically. “He’s got an old Ruger revolver. But now he has to use both hands to hold it steady.”
    “You said his capacity for emotion has faded. But he certainly reacted to these paintings, when he saw them in. here.”
    Maureen’s eyes filled. “Oh God, that hurts. I know better than to try to reason him into the present. The neurologists tried a lot at first—we all did. I couldn’t believe he was gone. He’s not a person anymore, he’s a holograph. He has flashes—sometimes they’ll last as long as a minute or two—when he seems like the old Garrett. Sometimes in bed he looks at me the way he used to, as if we two are the only people in the world; I can hold his attention longer then. And there are some things you just don’t forget.” She swallowed hard. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. But it’s been so long since I’ve really talked to anyone. In bed—that’s where it’s worst. Mechanically Garrett’s great. Still knows all the right moves. But they don’t mean anything to him.”
    “Take your time,” Kiernan said gently, watching Maureen awkwardly rubbing her wet cheeks. She hoped her voice did not betray her horror of misery such as Maureen’s: misery for which she knew no relief. She was clumsy with this kind of grief. For her, pain was something to be denied. She’d learned from her sister, Moira, how to run from pain so fast that it could never catch up with her—until Moira died. She’d let her guard down only once after that, with Marc Rosten—and afterward she’d never allowed herself to dwell on that mistake. At this moment she wanted more than anything to get away from Maureen Brant, run full out to the Jeep, and floor the gas pedal. Instead, she took a deep breath, put a hand on Maureen’s arm, and led her to the sofa. Her own fingers felt cold, but Maureen’s skin was icy. “Garrett didn’t sound unsure of himself when he met me, Maureen.”
    “You didn’t know him as he was before. He has no idea who you are, of course. And he won’t remember ever having met you—you can walk into that studio a hundred times today, two hundred times, and he’d greet you the same way each time: ‘Now where is it we know each other from?’”
    She jumped up and began pacing. “I hate it here in this gloomy house, but it’s the only place we can live, the place we were—the day before Garrett lost his memory. I couldn’t stand to have him in Anchorage or San Francisco, disoriented the whole time, wondering how he got where he was, why there’s oil on the beaches he used to visit south of Anchorage, why the buildings he remembers in San Francisco before the earthquake aren’t there any longer.” The mechanical pacing, back and forth, up and down, continued. “When I go to the store, I have to lock Garrett in so he doesn’t decide to go for a walk. If he got lost, he’d never find his way home again. I leave him a note: ‘Door may be stuck. Relax. I’m going for locksmith.’ Same note whenever I go out. He probably reads it anew fifty times when I’m gone.” She looked down at Kiernan, the anger in her eyes cutting through the mist of despair. “If Robin Matucci had killed him, I would have forgiven her. Garrett, the man I knew and loved, is dead. A fading photograph of himself. For me, the moment of his death comes a thousand times a day. And it will as long as we both live.
    “Will you take this case?”
    Kiernan’s own