[22 May 2010]
I tried. I really tried, but she saw me through the window today, and smiling that brilliant smile of hers, she beckoned me in, and to my eternal shame, I was powerless to resist.
"Hello, Mr. Pearce," she said as I closed the door and turned to face her.
"Harry," I corrected her, the formality of the greeting throwing me off sufficiently for me to temporarily fail to notice that she knows my name. "How do you know who I am?" I asked in surprise.
"I asked Janet, my nurse, this morning who my shy visitor is," she smiled, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "I've seen you watching me." I nodded at a loss as to what to say to that, and all the while all I could think of was that time on the Grid years ago when I'd told her she was a born spook. I've never spoken a truer word; I thought I'd managed to remain unseen. "So how do I know you?" she asked next.
"Janet didn't tell you?" I asked.
"She didn't know. She only knew your name because she overheard Dr. Draper address you one day," she smiled. "Apparently you were rather cagey when she tried to find out more."
I couldn't help smiling at the uncertain frown she gave me. "How do you think you know me?" I asked and I could see her eyes light up at the challenge.
"Well," she replied, "you're too young to be my father and besides I already know he died. You could be an uncle or cousin, but you're not family; I asked my mother. You're concerned for me, which means we must know each other well. Maybe friends or perhaps colleagues... or both. I reckon we work together as people our age usually make friends in the workplace. You're quite a bit older than me, so you're senior at work, perhaps my boss? How am I doing?"
"Brilliantly as always, Ruth," I replied, amazed yet again by the brilliance of her analytical mind. "I am indeed your boss, though I don't often think of myself as such. I try to run my team informally and only pull rank when necessary," I hastened to add, trying to explain away my thoughtless remark. Of course, I don't think of myself as her boss; most of my thoughts about Ruth are entirely unprofessional and I am utterly in love with her.
"And that's why we call you Harry," she smiled, thankfully finding nothing odd in my explanation. "Please, take a seat, Harry." She indicated the seat beside her bed where I'd seen her mother sit every day and I took it, letting my eyes roam over her beloved face as I asked her how she was feeling and she played down the pain and discomfort she must be in, in true Ruth-like fashion. I must have smiled because she asked me why I was smiling and I found myself telling her how relieved I am that she's alive and that, despite her memory loss, she's the same person she's always been.
"The same person I've always been... What do you mean by that? How would you describe me, Harry?" she asked, her blue eyes gazing at me earnestly.
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her that I thought she was perfect, but I held back with practised ease and instead listed a few of the most obvious adjectives anyone might use to describe Ruth. Brilliant, inquisitive, analytical, determined – and very stubborn I thought privately but didn't say so – caring and thoughtful. I stopped there, but I suddenly realised what's different about her now. Without the memory of all the trauma she's lived through from losing her father to the loss of colleagues and friends, and most recently, her common law husband and step-son, she's happier and more open and trusting than I have ever seen her, than she's probably ever been in her adult life. And it was such a joy to see it, to see the damage that the job and I have inflicted on her gone just like that, that it made me even more determined to cut all ties with her. This I decided would be the last time I ever saw her.
And as if to prove just how brilliant she really is, no sooner had I made up my mind, when she asked, "What's wrong, Harry?"
"Nothing," I smiled, attempting to make light of possibly the worst moment of my life. "I should get going. Is your mother going to be staying with you when they discharge you tomorrow?" I hastily changed the subject.
"Yes, she is," she replied.
I nodded and began to rise, standing and murmuring that it was late and I had to go home, when she reached out her right hand towards me, grasping my wrist lightly and saying, "Wait! Before you go, I need you to tell me something, Harry. What kind of work do I do? I asked Mum, but she said she didn't know exactly and that no doubt my employers will contact me soon. She looked so uncomfortable and you haven't said anything about work that I'm beginning to worry now that I'm involved in something sinister. Please tell me."
I had wanted to avoid this conversation so much and I did consider brushing her off, but she looked so vulnerable and worried that I didn't feel it would help her to entirely ignore the issue. It took me several moments to come up with the right words to tell her enough but not too much, and all that time, the warmth from her palm resting against the back of my hand was making it so hard to concentrate on what had to be said. In all the years we've know each other, we've only ever touched fleetingly, our skin had never been in contact this long, at least not while both of us have been conscious, and it felt so wonderful, so right, that I never wanted it to end.
When I'd finished speaking, she was silent for a few moments before slowly slipping her hand round my wrist until our palms were pressed together. The feeling of bliss that settled over my heart as she linked our fingers is like nothing I've ever experienced before, and I could feel the tears spring to my eyes even as I tried to control my emotions. "My heart's racing," she stated softly as she watched me, "and so is yours. Why is that?"
I hadn't been prepared for her to be so bold and forthright. Ruth's always avoided talking about anything personal, especially matters of the heart. Her conversation has nearly always been about work, at least with me. Of course at work, she always gets straight to the point, so it's obviously an important part of who she is, direct and curious. I realised then that this amnesia she's suffering from might be the best opportunity I'm ever going to have to get to know Ruth. The slate has been wiped clean and I'm getting a unique insight into what Ruth is really like when she's not busy being afraid, shy or insecure. And so within minutes of strengthening my resolve to never see Ruth again, I began to doubt that I'd made the right decision and my resolve began to weaken.
As I began to doubt myself and before I could formulate a response to her question, she lifted her other hand, the one that's wrapped in a cast, and with her fingertips, she began to stroke the back of my hand, tracing my knuckles and fingers softly as she dropped her gaze to watch what she was doing. I can honestly say that it was the most erotic touch I have ever known, and within seconds, I found it impossible to control my body's reaction to it. I pulled my hand away and she immediately began to apologise, looking stricken that she might have done something to upset me.
"Ruth, please," I interrupted. "There's nothing to be sorry about. I just need to be getting home."
"Of course," she replied, "how thoughtless of me. Your family must be waiting for you."
"There's no one waiting for me, Ruth," I found myself murmuring softly, wishing to reassure her that there's no reason for her to be feeling guilty, but the way her eyes lit up when she heard that I'm single had my heart racing once more. Is it really possible that our love for one another is so deep that it can survive not only several years and a few thousand miles separation, but a complete loss of memory and identity? And if that is the case, than perhaps the problem has always been, not that I love Ruth, but that she's never allowed me to get close enough to protect her, to keep her safe.
And that's when I had the brilliant and yet terrible idea, an idea that might make all my dreams come true, but which might also destroy them once and for all. And as she smiled and looked up at me and I gazed into those beloved, intelligent eyes of hers, I couldn't hold back from telling the lie that would give me all I've ever wanted. I lent down and kissed her cheek softly before murmuring in her ear, "My heart's racing because it always does that when you're near. I've been in love with you almost from the first moment I met you, more than five years ago, Ruth, and about four months ago I asked you to marry me."
"We're engaged?" she asked a little breathlessly as soon as I pulled back to look at her. I nodded, unable to speak the lie to her face, knowing that what I'm doing is wrong on so many different levels. And then she smiled, a warm, genuine, brilliant smile that lit up her face and made me forget my guilt for an instant. "Why didn't you say so before?" she asked.
"You've been through a lot, Ruth," I replied, dropping my gaze guiltily.
"But it's wonderful to know that I'm not alone, Harry," she said. "Do we live together?"
"No," I answered, and with that simple question, I began to realise how complicated this will be and that I have some serious thinking to do if I'm going to pull this off. I effectively need to construct and memorise a legend that will stand up to scrutiny by Ruth's inquisitive mind and keen intellect. So I began to excuse myself once more, saying that I'll be back tomorrow and will be happy to answer more of her questions, but that we both need to rest now. Then I lent down to kiss her cheek again in goodnight, but she turned her face at the last moment and pressed her lips softly against mine.
I whistled all the way home.