It's late—after twelve now, and they're having a midnight snack in the glassed-in terrace. Greg appreciates the fact that Gardener doesn't wear a bra under her shirt and silk robe; her nipples show through the thin material. She must be cold; the terrace is heated, but her feet are bare. Still she says nothing, just sets the butlers tray on the stand between them and sits, graceful as always.
"You must be thinking dire thoughts if that frown is anything to go by." She sips her coffee. Greg sees she has no plate, though there's a basket of rolls and croissants available, as well as some cheese and ham. As he had noticed at their meeting in the café she is too thin, and there are faint smudges under her eyes. Annoyed and distressed by this knowledge, he takes a plate from the stack on the tray and puts it in front of her.
"Eat."
She says nothing. Before she would have teased him, taken a roll and made him eat the first bite. Now she keeps her distance, and it's down to him and his stupidity. He selects a croissant, splits it in half, places a slice of ham on both halves, and takes one for himself.
"I'm showing you how it's done," he says through the food. Gardener looks down at the croissant, then away.
"Later." She sounds cool and uninterested; that isn't like her at all. He misses the warmth that's so natural to her. He watches her as she takes another taste of coffee, and then he remembers: she has a long-standing diagnosis of clinical depression. All the hallmarks are there—flattened affect, lack of interest in everyday routines, no appetite, emotional detachment. He's responsible for this, and feels shame at the knowledge.
"You have to take your meds with food. So eat." He winces at how harsh he sounds. Gardener doesn't respond at first. Then she puts her hand over his, takes his fingers in a gentle clasp. She says nothing, just holds his hand. "You don't have to do this, you know." All she does is offer him a slight smile, but she traces a circle over his skin with her thumb—a caress, one he hasn't felt in months. Her touch loosens something inside him, some place that's been locked up tight since he woke and realized where he was, that he was in trouble and helpless to stop what was happening.
"It wasn't you." The words come out of nowhere. "Dana, it . . . it wasn't you. I was—I was in shock and scared and half-stoned on morphine, and when you came in I saw . . ." He pauses, tries to get things in order. "It was a flashback. Sort of." Surprise and realization collide in his mind.
"Can you tell me what you saw? What you remember?"
("You're a lucky young man. A few weeks in a cast and you'll be good as new. No more sliding on bannister rails though." The doctor eases Greg's shirtsleeve down over the plaster. "Here's your mother."
She stands in the doorway with that look on her face—the one that means she's deeply disappointed in him, she doesn't understand his constant need to misbehave—'misbehave', that's the exact word she uses. Greg wonders if the doctor will tell her about the finger-mark bruises on his wrist. Probably not; this is a military infirmary after all, and it would get back to his dad eventually. And anyway, Dad hadn't meant to hurt him. He'd grabbed the closest available limb to stop a fall, and if he'd gripped too hard and added a couple of rough shakes, whose fault was that? Dad had a right to get mad. At least that's what his mother had told him often enough.
"Gregory . . ." Mom comes into the room. "Are you all right?" At his muttered reply she sighs softly. "Your father said something about you playing on the stairs, he had to catch you and he . . . well, at least you're in one piece." She stands in front of him now. "This could have been much worse. You're fortunate he was there to help you. I just don't understand why you have to misbehave, Greg."
He stares at the floor because there's no reply he can make that will change anything . . . but he's able to think whatever he likes, and someday he'll be out of school and away from all this, away from the endless rules he always breaks and people who don't ask why he does things. He'll be free then.)
"There's more," Gardener prompts gently when he is silent. "Isn't there?"
"Yes," he's astonished to discover she's right. "Yes, there is."
(The first thing he sees when he comes out of the coma is Stacy, and he's never been so glad to have her close. She's crying, her mascara's all messed up and she hasn't slept, but he loves her for it.
"I'm sorry . . . Greg, I'm so sorry." Her dark eyes are haunted. He wants to reassure her that everything's all right, he's come through the procedure okay, even if he's still having some trouble waking up. He looks to the left, sees what is unmistakably a morphine pump, and wonders if he should call a nurse to clear the unneeded equipment out of his room . . .
"I didn't know what to do—please understand, I tried to do what was right—"
He notices the line from the pump is still hooked into his IV, and there are numbers on the display. Puzzled, he frowns—why . . .? And then he feels that deep ache, the one he'd known before the blinding agony of the clot. Panic fills him for a moment, to be swept away by sudden, unwelcome insight.
"Operated." His voice is rough with disuse. He struggles to sit up, to see what's happened, but he can't do it.
"They took out the dead muscle. Otherwise it would have poisoned you, that's what she—what they told me."
"NO . . ." He tries to fight the truth, but it's far too late now, and the author of his new reality, the one he's loved as best he can and who is now his betrayer, sits at his side and cries silent tears. He tries to yell at her to go away, to get out, and even that is denied him as he slides back into unconsciousness.)
"What could be more natural than to expect a third betrayal?" Gardener continues to hold his hand.
"You didn't . . ." Greg stares at her fingers. "You knew."
"I suspected. But I couldn't know for sure until you told me."
He lifts his gaze to her face. "Six months. You waited all that time."
"You had to come to me."
"You were so sure I would."
She shakes her head. "No. I know this is an old injury that's never healed." For a moment the mask of cool detachment drops and he sees what he's done, the deep wounding pain she's lived with for many weeks, thinking he'd pushed her away when he'd been fighting phantoms. And yet she's allowed him in, offered him help, listened to him when she had every right to kick his sorry ass to the curb.
He is invited to stay in the extra bedroom. There are no moving boxes here, no signs that she's ready to leave him behind. He's exhausted now, so he accepts the invitation and says nothing when she leaves him, the door closed behind her. But as he drifts off to sleep with the familiar, comforting feel of clean linen sheets against his skin, he knows there's more to come, and he's not sure he can do what needs to be done. All he can do is try.